The reader may remember that a rumour had been conveyed to Phineas,—­a rumour indeed which reached him from a source which he regarded as very untrustworthy,—­that Violet Effingham had quarrelled with her lover.  He would probably have paid no attention to the rumour, beyond that which necessarily attached itself to any tidings as to a matter so full of interest to him, had it not been repeated to him in another quarter.  “A bird has told me that your Violet Effingham has broken with her lover,” Madame Goesler said to him one day.  “What bird?” he asked.  “Ah, that I cannot tell you.  But this I will confess to you, that these birds which tell us news are seldom very credible,—­and are often not very creditable, You must take a bird’s word for what it may be worth.  It is said that they have quarrelled.  I daresay, if the truth were known, they are billing and cooing in each other’s arms at this moment.”

Phineas did not like to be told of their billing and cooing,—­did not like to be told even of their quarrelling.  Though they were to quarrel, it would do him no good.  He would rather that nobody should mention their names to him;—­so that his back, which had been so utterly broken, might in process of time get itself cured.  From what he knew of Violet he thought it very improbable that, even were she to quarrel with one lover, she would at once throw herself into the arms of another.  And he did feel, too, that there would be some meanness in taking her, were she willing to be so taken.  But, nevertheless, these rumours, coming to him in this way from different sources, almost made it incumbent on him to find out the truth.  He began to think that his broken back was not cured;—­that perhaps, after all, it was not in the way of being cured, And was it not possible that there might be explanations?  Then he went to work and built castles in the air, so constructed as to admit of the possibility of Violet Effingham becoming his wife.

This had been in April, and at that time all that he knew of Violet was, that she was not yet in London.  And he thought that he knew the same as to Lord Chiltern.  The Earl had told him that Chiltern was not in town, nor expected in town as yet; and in saying so had seemed to express displeasure against his son.  Phineas had met Lady Baldock at some house which he frequented, and had been quite surprised to find himself graciously received by the old woman.  She had said not a word of Violet, but had spoken of Lord Chiltern,—­mentioning his name in bitter wrath.  “But he is a friend of mine,” said Phineas, smiling.  “A friend indeed!  Mr. Finn.  I know what sort of a friend.  I don’t believe that you are his friend.  I am afraid he is not worthy of having any friend.”  Phineas did not quite understand from this that Lady Baldock was signifying to him that, badly as she had thought of him as a suitor for her niece, she would have preferred him,—­especially now when people were beginning to speak well of him,—­to that terrible