There had been one difficulty in the way of Madame Goesler’s dinner-parties which had required some patience and great ingenuity in its management.  She must either have ladies, or she must not have them.  There was a great allurement in the latter alternative; but she knew well that if she gave way to it, all prospect of general society would for her be closed,—­and for ever.  This had been in the early days of her widowhood in Park Lane.  She cared but little for women’s society; but she knew well that the society of gentlemen without women would not be that which she desired.  She knew also that she might as effectually crush herself and all her aspirations by bringing to her house indifferent women,—­women lacking something either in character, or in position, or in talent,—­as by having none at all.  Thus there had been a great difficulty, and sometimes she had thought that the thing could not be done at all.  “These English are so stiff, so hard, so heavy!” And yet she would not have cared to succeed elsewhere than among the English.  By degrees, however, the thing was done.  Her prudence equalled her wit, and even suspicious people had come to acknowledge that they could not put their fingers on anything wrong.  When Lady Glencora Palliser had once dined at the cottage in Park Lane, Madame Max Goesler had told herself that henceforth she did not care what the suspicious people said.  Since that the Duke of Omnium had almost promised that he would come.  If she could only entertain the Duke of Omnium she would have done everything.

But there was no Duke of Omnium there to-night.  At this time the Duke of Omnium was, of course, not in London.  But Lord Fawn was there; and our old friend Laurence Fitzgibbon, who had—­resigned his place at the Colonial Office; and there were Mr. and Mrs. Bonteen.  They, with our hero, made up the party.  No one doubted for a moment to what source Mr. Bonteen owed his dinner.  Mrs. Bonteen was good-looking, could talk, was sufficiently proper, and all that kind of thing,—­and did as well as any other woman at this time of year to keep Madame Max Goesler in countenance.  There was never any sitting after dinner at the cottage; or, I should rather say, there was never any sitting after Madame Goesler went; so that the two ladies could not weary each other by being alone together.  Mrs. Bonteen understood quite well that she was not required there to talk to her hostess, and was as willing as any woman to make herself agreeable to the gentlemen she might meet at Madame Goesler’s table.  And thus Mr. and Mrs. Bonteen not unfrequently dined in Park Lane.

“Now we have only to wait for that horrible man, Mr. Fitzgibbon,” said Madame Max Goesler, as she welcomed Phineas.  “He is always late.”

“What a blow for me!” said Phineas.

“No,—­you are always in good time.  But there is a limit beyond which good time ends, and being shamefully late at once begins.  But here he is.”  And then, as Laurence Fitzgibbon entered the room, Madame Goesler rang the bell for dinner.