“No;—­we did not part as friends.  Having gone there to fight with him,—­most unwillingly,—­I could not afterwards promise him that I would give up Miss Effingham.  You say she will accept him now.  Let him come and try.”  She had nothing further to say,—­no other argument to use.  There was the soreness at her heart still present to her, making her wretched, instigating her to hurt him if she knew how to do so, in spite of her regard for him.  But she felt that she was weak and powerless.  She had shot her arrows at him,—­all but one,—­and if she used that, its poisoned point would wound herself far more surely than it would touch him.  “The duel was very silly,” he said.  “You will not speak of it.”

“No; certainly not.”

“I am glad at least that I have told you everything.”

“I do not know why you should be glad.  I cannot help you.”

“And you will say nothing to Violet?”

“Everything that I can say in Oswald’s favour.  I will say nothing of the duel; but beyond that you have no right to demand my secrecy with her.  Yes; you had better go, Mr. Finn, for I am hardly well.  And remember this,—­If you can forget this little episode about Miss Effingham, so will I forget it also; and so will Oswald.  I can promise for him.”  Then she smiled and gave him her hand, and he went.

She rose from her chair as he left the room, and waited till she heard the sound of the great door closing behind him before she again sat down.  Then, when he was gone,—­when she was sure that he was no longer there with her in the same house,—­she laid her head down upon the arm of the sofa, and burst into a flood of tears.  She was no longer angry with Phineas.  There was no further longing in her heart for revenge.  She did not now desire to injure him, though she had done so as long as he was with her.  Nay,—­she resolved instantly, almost instinctively, that Lord Brentford must know nothing of all this, lest the political prospects of the young member for Loughton should be injured.  To have rebuked him, to rebuke him again and again, would be only fair,—­would at least be womanly; but she would protect him from all material injury as far as her power of protection might avail.  And why was she weeping now so bitterly?  Of course she asked herself, as she rubbed away the tears with her hands,—­Why should she weep?  She was not weak enough to tell herself that she was weeping for any injury that had been done to Oswald.  She got up suddenly from the sofa, and pushed away her hair from her face, and pushed away the tears from her cheeks, and then clenched her fists as she held them out at full length from her body, and stood, looking up with her eyes fixed upon the wall.  “Ass!” she exclaimed.  “Fool!  Idiot!  That I should not be able to crush it into nothing and have done with it!  Why should he not have her?  After all, he is better than Oswald.  Oh,—­is that you?” The door of the room had been opened while she was standing thus, and her husband had entered.