almost, had heard of the duel; and all the world had smiled, and seemed to think that in the real fight Phineas Finn would be the victor,—­that the lucky pistol was in his hands.  It had never occurred to any one to suppose,—­as far as he could see,—­that he was presuming at all, or pushing himself out of his own sphere, in asking Violet Effingham to be his wife.  No;—­he would trust his luck, would persevere, and would succeed.  Such had been his resolution on that very morning,—­and now there had come this letter to dash him to the ground.

There were moments in which he declared to himself that he would not believe the letter,—­not that there was any moment in which there was in his mind the slightest spark of real hope.  But he would tell himself that he would still persevere.  Violet might have been driven to accept that violent man by violent influence,—­or it might be that she had not in truth accepted him, that Chiltern had simply so asserted.  Or, even if it were so, did women never change their minds?  The manly thing would be to persevere to the end.  Had he not before been successful, when success seemed to be as far from him?  But he could buoy himself up with no real hope.  Even when these ideas were present to his mind, he knew,—­he knew well,—­at those very moments, that his back was broken.

Some one had come in and lighted the candles and drawn down the blinds while he was sitting there, and now, as he looked at his watch, he found that it was past five o’clock.  He was engaged to dine with Madame Max Goesler at eight, and in his agony he half-resolved that he would send an excuse.  Madame Max would be full of wrath, as she was very particular about her little dinner-parties;—­but, what did he care now about the wrath of Madame Max Goesler?  And yet only this morning he had been congratulating himself, among his other successes, upon her favour, and had laughed inwardly at his own falseness,—­his falseness to Violet Effingham,—­as he did so.  He had said something to himself jocosely about lovers’ perjuries, the remembrance of which was now very bitter to him.  He took up a sheet of note-paper and scrawled an excuse to Madame Goesler.  News from the country, he said, made it impossible that he should go out to-night.  But he did not send the note.  At about half-past five he opened the door of his private secretary’s room and found the young man fast asleep, with a cigar in his mouth.  “Halloa, Charles,” he said.

“All right!” Charles Standish was a first cousin of Lady Laura’s, and, having been in the office before Phineas had joined it, and being a great favourite with his cousin, had of course become the Under-Secretary’s private secretary.  “I’m all here,” said Charles Standish, getting up and shaking himself.

“I am going.  Just tie up those papers,—­exactly as they are.  I shall be here early to-morrow, but I shan’t want you before twelve.  Good night, Charles.”

“Ta, ta,” said his private secretary, who was very fond of his master, but not very respectful,—­unless upon express occasions.