On the second day after dinner,—­the last evening of Finn’s visit to Saulsby,—­the Earl fell suddenly into a confidential conversation about his daughter and his son, and about Violet Effingham.  So sudden, indeed, and so confidential was the conversation, that Phineas was almost silenced for awhile.  A word or two had been said about Loughlinter, of the beauty of the place and of the vastness of the property.  “I am almost afraid,” said Lord Brentford, “that Laura is not happy there.”

“I hope she is,” said Phineas.

“He is so hard and dry, and what I call exacting.  That is just the word for it.  Now Laura has never been used to that.  With me she always had her own way in everything, and I always found her fit to have it.  I do not understand why her husband should treat her differently.”

“Perhaps it is the temper of the man.”

“Temper, yes; but what a bad prospect is that for her!  And she, too, has a temper, and so he will find if he tries her too far.  I cannot stand Loughlinter.  I told Laura so fairly.  It is one of those houses in which a man cannot call his hours his own.  I told Laura that I could not undertake to remain there for above a day or two.”

“It is very sad,” said Phineas.

“Yes, indeed; it is sad for her, poor girl; and very sad for me too.  I have no one else but Laura,—­literally no one; and now I am divided from her!  It seems that she has been taken as much away from me as though her husband lived in China.  I have lost them both now!”

“I hope not, my lord.”

“I say I have.  As to Chiltern, I can perceive that he becomes more and more indifferent to me every day.  He thinks of me only as a man in his way who must die some day and may die soon.”

“You wrong him, Lord Brentford.”

“I do not wrong him at all.  Why has he answered every offer I have made him with so much insolence as to make it impossible for me to put myself into further communion with him?”

“He thinks that you have wronged him.”

“Yes;—­because I have been unable to shut my eyes to his mode of living.  I was to go on paying his debts, and taking no other notice whatsoever of his conduct!”

“I do not think he is in debt now.”

“Because his sister the other day spent every shilling of her fortune in paying them.  She gave him L40,000!  Do you think she would have married Kennedy but for that?  I don’t.  I could not prevent her.  I had said that I would not cripple my remaining years of life by raising the money, and I could not go back from my word.”

“You and Chiltern might raise the money between you.”

“It would do no good now.  She has married Mr. Kennedy, and the money is nothing to her or to him.  Chiltern might have put things right by marrying Miss Effingham if he pleased.”

“I think he did his best there.”

“No;—­he did his worst.  He asked her to be his wife as a man asks for a railway-ticket or a pair of gloves, which he buys with a price; and because she would not jump into his mouth he gave it up.  I don’t believe he even really wanted to marry her.  I suppose he has some disreputable connection to prevent it.”