“So, here you are again, Mr. Finn,” said a voice in his ear.

“Yes, Miss Fitzgibbon; here I am again.”

“I fancied you members of Parliament had something else to do besides looking at wild beasts.  I thought you always spent Sunday in arranging how you might most effectually badger each other on Monday.”

“We got through all that early this morning, Miss Fitzgibbon, while you were saying your prayers.”

“Here is Mr. Kennedy too;—­you know him I daresay.  He also is a member; but then he can afford to be idle.”  But it so happened that Phineas did not know Mr. Kennedy, and consequently there was some slight form of introduction.

“I believe I am to meet you at dinner on Wednesday,”—­said Phineas,—­“at Lord Brentford’s.”

“And me too,” said Miss Fitzgibbon.

“Which will be the greatest possible addition to our pleasure,” said Phineas.

Mr. Kennedy, who seemed to be afflicted with some difficulty in speaking, and whose bow to our hero had hardly done more than produce the slightest possible motion to the top of his hat, hereupon muttered something which was taken to mean an assent to the proposition as to Wednesday’s dinner.  Then he stood perfectly still, with his two hands fixed on the top of his umbrella, and gazed at the great monkeys’ cage.  But it was clear that he was not looking at any special monkey, for his eyes never wandered.

“Did you ever see such a contrast in your life?” said Miss Fitzgibbon to Phineas,—­hardly in a whisper.

“Between what?” said Phineas.

“Between Mr. Kennedy and a monkey.  The monkey has so much to say for himself, and is so delightfully wicked!  I don’t suppose that Mr. Kennedy ever did anything wrong in his life.”

Mr. Kennedy was a man who had very little temptation to do anything wrong.  He was possessed of over a million and a half of money, which he was mistaken enough to suppose he had made himself; whereas it may be doubted whether he had ever earned a penny.  His father and his uncle had created a business in Glasgow, and that business now belonged to him.  But his father and his uncle, who had toiled through their long lives, had left behind them servants who understood the work, and the business now went on prospering almost by its own momentum.  The Mr. Kennedy of the present day, the sole owner of the business, though he did occasionally go to Glasgow, certainly did nothing towards maintaining it.  He had a magnificent place in Perthshire, called Loughlinter, and he sat for a Scotch group of boroughs, and he had a house in London, and a stud of horses in Leicestershire, which he rarely visited, and was unmarried.  He never spoke much to any one, although he was constantly in society.  He rarely did anything, although he had the means of doing everything.  He had very seldom been on his legs in the House of Commons, though he had sat there for ten years.  He was seen about everywhere, sometimes with one acquaintance