“Ratler is very well in the House,” said Barrington, “but he is of no use for anything beyond it.  I suppose you were not brought up at the London University?”

“Oh no,” said Phineas, remembering the glories of Trinity.

“Because there would have been an opening.  What do you say to Stratford,—­the new Essex borough?”

“Broadbury the brewer is there already!”

“Yes;—­and ready to spend any money you like to name.  Let me see.  Loughton is grouped with Smotherem, and Walker is a deal too strong at Smotherem to hear of any other claim.  I don’t think we could dare to propose it.  There are the Chelsea hamlets, but it will take a wack of money.”

“I have not got a wack of money,” said Phineas, laughing.

“That’s the devil of it.  I think, if I were you, I should hark back upon some place in Ireland.  Couldn’t you get Laurence to give you up his seat?”

“What!  Fitzgibbon?”

“Yes.  He has not a ghost of a chance of getting into office again.  Nothing on earth would induce him to look at a paper during all those weeks he was at the Colonial Office; and when Cantrip spoke to him, all he said was, ‘Ah, bother!’ Cantrip did not like it, I can tell you.”

“But that wouldn’t make him give up his seat.”

“Of course you’d have to arrange it.”  By which Phineas understood Barrington Erle to mean that he, Phineas, was in some way to give to Laurence Fitzgibbon some adequate compensation for the surrender of his position as a county member.

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question,” said Phineas.  “If he were to go, I should not get it.”

“Would you have a chance at Loughshane?”

“I was thinking of trying it,” said Phineas.

“Of course you know that Morris is very ill.”  This Mr. Morris was the brother of Lord Tulla, and was the sitting member of Loughshane.  “Upon my word I think I should try that.  I don’t see where we’re to put our hands on a seat in England.  I don’t indeed.”  Phineas, as he listened to this, could not help thinking that Barrington Erle, though he had certainly expressed a great deal of solicitude, was not as true a friend as he used to be.  Perhaps he, Phineas, had risen too fast, and Barrington Erle was beginning to think that he might as well be out of the way.

He wrote to his father, asking after the borough, and asking after the health of Mr. Morris.  And in his letter he told his own story very plainly,—­almost pathetically.  He perhaps had been wrong to make the attempt which he had made.  He began to believe that he had been wrong.  But at any rate he had made it so far successfully, and failure now would be doubly bitter.  He thought that the party to which he belonged must now remain in office.  It would hardly be possible that a new election would produce a House of Commons favourable to a conservative ministry.  And with a liberal ministry he, Phineas, would be sure of his place, and sure of an official