Phineas did not come till late,—­till seven, when the banquet was over.  I think he was right in this, as the banqueting in tents loses in comfort almost more than it gains in romance.  A small picnic may be very well, and the distance previously travelled may give to a dinner on the ground the seeming excuse of necessity.  Frail human nature must be supported,—­and human nature, having gone so far in pursuit of the beautiful, is entitled to what best support the unaccustomed circumstances will allow.  Therefore, out with the cold pies, out with the salads, and the chickens, and the champagne.  Since no better may be, let us recruit human nature sitting upon this moss, and forget our discomforts in the glory of the verdure around us.  And dear Mary, seeing that the cushion from the waggonet is small, and not wishing to accept the too generous offer that she should take it all for her own use, will admit a contact somewhat closer than the ordinary chairs of a dining-room render necessary.  That in its way is very well;—­but I hold that a banquet on narrow tables in a tent is displeasing.

Phineas strolled into the grounds when the tent was nearly empty, and when Lady Glencora, almost sinking beneath her exertions, was taking rest in an inner room.  The Duke at this time was dining with their royal highnesses, and three or four others, specially selected, very comfortably within doors.  Out of doors the world had begun to dance,—­and the world was beginning to say that it would be much nicer to go and dance upon the boards inside as soon as possible.  For, though of all parties a garden party is the nicest, everybody is always anxious to get out of the garden as quick as may be.  A few ardent lovers of suburban picturesque effect were sitting beneath the haycocks, and four forlorn damsels were vainly endeavouring to excite the sympathy of manly youth by playing croquet in a corner.  I am not sure, however, that the lovers beneath the haycocks and the players at croquet were not actors hired by Lady Glencora for the occasion.

Phineas had not been long on the lawn before he saw Lady Laura Kennedy.  She was standing with another lady, and Barrington Erle was with them.  “So you have been successful?” said Barrington, greeting him.

“Successful in what?”

“In what?  In getting a ticket.  I have had to promise three tide-waiterships, and to give deep hints about a bishopric expected to be vacant, before I got in.  But what matters?  Success pays for everything.  My only trouble now is how I’m to get back to London.”

Lady Laura shook hands with Phineas, and then as he was passing on, followed him for a step and whispered a word to him.  “Mr. Finn,” she said, “if you are not going yet, come back to me presently.  I have something to say to you.  I shall not be far from the river, and shall stay here for about an hour.”

Phineas said that he would, and then went on, not knowing exactly where he was going.  He had one desire,—­to find Violet Effingham, but when he should find her he could not carry her off, and sit with her beneath a haycock.