“I think that I have been wrong,” said Phineas.  “I am becoming heartily sick of officialities.”

“That comes from the fickleness about which papa is so fond of quoting his Latin.  The ox desires the saddle.  The charger wants to plough.”

“And which am I?”

“Your career may combine the dignity of the one with the utility of the other.  At any rate you must not think of changing now.  Have you seen Mr. Kennedy lately?” She asked the question abruptly, showing that she was anxious to get to the matter respecting which she had summoned him to her side, and that all that she had said hitherto had been uttered as it were in preparation of that subject.

“Seen him? yes; I see him daily.  But we hardly do more than speak,”

“Why not?” Phineas stood for a moment in silence, hesitating.  “Why is it that he and you do not speak?”

“How can I answer that question, Lady Laura?”

“Do you know any reason?  Sit down, or, if you please, I will get up and walk with you.  He tells me that you have chosen to quarrel with him, and that I have made you do so.  He says that you have confessed to him that I have asked you to quarrel with him.”

“He can hardly have said that.”

“But he has said it,—­in so many words.  Do you think that I would tell you such a story falsely?”

“Is he here now?”

“No;—­he is not here.  He would not come.  I came alone.”

“Is not Miss Effingham with you?”

“No;—­she is to come with my father later.  She is here no doubt, now.  But answer my question, Mr. Finn;—­unless you find that you cannot answer it.  What was it that you did say to my husband?”

“Nothing to justify what he has told you.”

“Do you mean to say that he has spoken falsely?”

“I mean to use no harsh word,—­but I think that Mr. Kennedy when troubled in his spirit looks at things gloomily, and puts meaning upon words which they should not bear.”

“And what has troubled his spirit?”

“You must know that better than I can do, Lady Laura.  I will tell you all that I can tell you.  He invited me to his house and I would not go, because you had forbidden me.  Then he asked me some questions about you.  Did I refuse because of you,—­or of anything that you had said?  If I remember right, I told him that I did fancy that you would not be glad to see me,—­and that therefore I would rather stay away.  What was I to say?”

“You should have said nothing.”

“Nothing with him would have been worse than what I did say.  Remember that he asked me the question point-blank, and that no reply would have been equal to an affirmation.  I should have confessed that his suggestion was true.”

“He could not then have twitted me with your words.”

“If I have erred, Lady Laura, and brought any sorrow on you, I am indeed grieved.”

“It is all sorrow.  There is nothing but sorrow.  I have made up my mind to leave him.”