love and war all things are fair.  So he declared to himself; but as he did so he felt that his story was so weak that it would hardly gain for him an admittance into the Castle.  In this he was completely wrong.  The Earl, swallowing the bait, put his arm through that of the intruder, and, walking with him through the paths of the shrubbery, at length confessed that he would be glad to be reconciled to his son if it were possible.  “Let him come here, and she shall be here also,” said the Earl, speaking of Violet.  To this Phineas could say nothing out loud, but he told himself that all should be fair between them.  He would take no dishonest advantage of Lord Chiltern.  He would give Lord Chiltern the whole message as it was given to him by Lord Brentford.  But should it so turn out that he himself got an opportunity of saying to Violet all that he had come to say, and should it also turn out,—­an event which he acknowledged to himself to be most unlikely,—­that Violet did not reject him, then how could he write his letter to Lord Chiltern?  So he resolved that the letter should be written before he saw Violet.  But how could he write such a letter and instantly afterwards do that which would be false to the spirit of a letter so written?  Could he bid Lord Chiltern come home to woo Violet Effingham, and instantly go forth to woo her for himself?  He found that he could not do so,—­unless he told the whole truth to Lord Chiltern.  In no other way could he carry out his project and satisfy his own idea of what was honest.

The Earl bade him send to the hotel for his things.  “The Baldock people are all here, you know, but they go very early to-morrow.”  Then Phineas declared that he also must return to London very early on the morrow;—­but in the meantime he would go to the inn and fetch his things.  The Earl thanked him again and again for his generous kindness; and Phineas, blushing as he received the thanks, went back and wrote his letter to Lord Chiltern.  It was an elaborate letter, written, as regards the first and larger portion of it, with words intended to bring the prodigal son back to the father’s home.  And everything was said about Miss Effingham that could or should have been said.  Then, on the last page, he told his own story.  “Now,” he said, “I must speak of myself:”—­and he went on to explain to his friend, in the plainest language that he could use, his own position.  “I have loved her,” he said, “for six months, and I am here with the express intention of asking her to take me.  The chances are ten to one that she refuses me.  I do not deprecate your anger,—­if you choose to be angry.  But I am endeavouring to treat you well, and I ask you to do the same by me.  I must convey to you your father’s message, and after doing so I cannot address myself to Miss Effingham without telling you.  I should feel myself to be false were I to do so.  In the event,—­the probable, nay, almost certain event of my being refused,—­I shall trust you to keep my secret.  Do not quarrel with me if you can help it;—­but if you must I will be ready.”  Then he posted the letter and went up to the Castle.