But the doubt made his sojourn in Ireland very wearisome to him.  And there were other matters which tended also to his discomfort, though he was not left even at this period of his life without a continuation of success which seemed to be very wonderful.  And, first, I will say a word of his discomfort.  He heard not a line from Lord Chiltern in answer to the letter which he had written to his lordship.  From Lady Laura he did hear frequently.  Lady Laura wrote to him exactly as though she had never warned him away from Loughlinter, and as though there had been no occasion for such warning.  She sent him letters filled chiefly with politics, saying something also of the guests at Loughlinter, something of the game, and just a word or two here and there of her husband.  The letters were very good letters, and he preserved them carefully.  It was manifest to him that they were intended to be good letters, and, as such, to be preserved.  In one of these, which he received about the end of November, she told him that her brother was again in his old haunt, at the Willingford Bull, and that he had sent to Portman Square for all property of his own that had been left there.  But there was no word in that letter of Violet Effingham; and though Lady Laura did speak more than once of Violet, she always did so as though Violet were simply a joint acquaintance of herself and her correspondent.  There was no allusion to the existence of any special regard on his part for Miss Effingham.  He had thought that Violet might probably tell her friend what had occurred at Saulsby;—­but if she did so, Lady Laura was happy in her powers of reticence.  Our hero was disturbed also when he reached home by finding that Mrs. Flood Jones and Miss Flood Jones had retired from Killaloe for the winter.  I do not know whether he might not have been more disturbed by the presence of the young lady, for he would have found himself constrained to exhibit towards her some tenderness of manner; and any such tenderness of manner would, in his existing circumstances, have been dangerous.  But he was made to understand that Mary Flood Jones had been taken away from Killaloe because it was thought that he had ill-treated the lady, and the accusation made him unhappy.  In the middle of the heat of the last session he had received a letter from his sister, in which some pushing question had been asked as to his then existing feeling about poor Mary.  This he had answered petulantly.  Nothing more had been written to him about Miss Jones, and nothing was said to him when he reached home.  He could not, however, but ask after Mary, and when he did ask, the accusation was made again in that quietly severe manner with which, perhaps, most of us have been made acquainted at some period of our lives.  “I think, Phineas,” said his sister, “we had better say nothing about dear Mary.  She is not here at present, and probably you may not see her while you remain with us.”  “What’s all that about?” Phineas had demanded,—­understanding