“And you think it was a failure?” Lady Laura said to her husband.

“It certainly was not a success.  There was nothing particular about it.  There was a good deal of it you could hardly hear.”

After that she got the morning newspapers, and turned with great interest to the report.  Phineas Finn had been, as it were, adopted by her as her own political offspring,—­or at any rate as her political godchild.  She had made promises on his behalf to various personages of high political standing,—­to her father, to Mr. Monk, to the Duke of St. Bungay, and even to Mr. Mildmay himself.  She had thoroughly intended that Phineas Finn should be a political success from the first; and since her marriage, she had, I think, been more intent upon it than before.  Perhaps there was a feeling on her part that having wronged him in one way, she would repay him in another.  She had become so eager for his success,—­for a while scorning to conceal her feeling,—­that her husband had unconsciously begun to entertain a dislike to her eagerness.  We know how quickly women arrive at an understanding of the feelings of those with whom they live; and now, on that very occasion, Lady Laura perceived that her husband did not take in good part her anxiety on behalf of her friend.  She saw that it was so as she turned over the newspaper looking for the report of the speech.  It was given in six lines, and at the end of it there was an intimation,—­expressed in the shape of advice,—­that the young orator had better speak more slowly if he wished to be efficacious either with the House or with the country.

“He seems to have been cheered a good deal,” said Lady Laura.

“All members are cheered at their first speech,” said Mr. Kennedy.

“I’ve no doubt he’ll do well yet,” said Lady Laura.

“Very likely,” said Mr. Kennedy.  Then he turned to his newspaper, and did not take his eyes off it as long as his wife remained with him.

Later in the day Lady Laura saw her father, and Miss Effingham was with her at the time.  Lord Brentford said something which indicated that he had heard the debate on the previous evening, and Lady Laura instantly began to ask him about Phineas.

“The less said the better,” was the Earl’s reply.

“Do you mean that it was so bad as that?” asked Lady Laura.

“It was not very bad at first;—­though indeed nobody could say it was very good.  But he got himself into a mess about the police and the magistrates before he had done, and nothing but the kindly feeling always shown to a first effort saved him from being coughed down.”  Lady Laura had not a word more to say about Phineas to her father; but, womanlike, she resolved that she would not abandon him.  How many first failures in the world had been the precursors of ultimate success!  “Mildmay will lose his bill,” said the Earl, sorrowfully.  “There does not seem to be a doubt about that.”

“And what will you all do?” asked Lady Laura.