There was a very tender parting between Phineas and Madame Max Goesler.  She had learned from him pretty nearly all his history, and certainly knew more of the reality of his affairs than any of those in London who had been his most staunch friends.  “Of course you’ll get a seat,” she said as he took his leave of her.  “If I understand it at all, they never throw over an ally so useful as you are.”

“But the intention is that in this matter nobody shall any longer have the power of throwing over, or of not throwing over, anybody.”

“That is all very well, my friend; but cakes will still be hot in the mouth, even though Mr. Daubeny turn purist, with Mr. Turnbull to help him.  If you want any assistance in finding a seat you will not go to the People’s Banner,—­even yet.”

“Certainly not to the People’s Banner.”

“I don’t quite understand what the franchise is,” continued Madame Max Goesler.

“Household in boroughs,” said Phineas with some energy.

“Very well;—­household in boroughs.  I daresay that is very fine and very liberal, though I don’t comprehend it in the least.  And you want a borough.  Very well.  You won’t go to the households.  I don’t think you will;—­not at first, that is.”

“Where shall I go then?”

“Oh,—­to some great patron of a borough;—­or to a club;—­or perhaps to some great firm.  The households will know nothing about it till they are told.  Is not that it?”

“The truth is, Madame Max, I do not know where I shall go.  I am like a child lost in a wood.  And you may understand this;—­if you do not see me in Park Lane before the end of January, I shall have perished in the wood.”

“Then I will come and find you,—­with a troop of householders.  You will come.  You will be there.  I do not believe in death coming without signs.  You are full of life.”  As she spoke, she had hold of his hand, and there was nobody near them.  They were in a little book-room inside the library at Matching, and the door, though not latched, was nearly closed.  Phineas had flattered himself that Madame Goesler had retreated there in order that this farewell might be spoken without interruption.  “And, Mr. Finn;—­I wonder whether I may say one thing,” she continued.

“You may say anything to me,” he replied.

“No,—­not in this country, in this England.  There are things one may not say here,—­that are tabooed by a sort of consent,—­and that without any reason.”  She paused again, and Phineas was at a loss to think what was the subject on which she was about to speak.  Could she mean—?  No; she could not mean to give him any outward plain-spoken sign that she was attached to him.  It was the peculiar merit of this man that he was not vain, though much was done to him to fill him with vanity; and as the idea crossed his brain, he hated himself because it had been there.

“To me you may say anything, Madame Goesler,” he said,—­“here in England, as plainly as though we were in Vienna.”