“The very last,” said Phineas, feeling that the subject was one upon which it was not easy for him to speak.

“I cannot conceive to whom he can have alluded,” said Violet.  Then Phineas began to understand that Violet had not heard the whole story; but the difficulty of speaking was still very great.

“It has been the result of ungovernable temper,” he said.

“But a man does not usually strive to dishonour himself because he is in a rage.  And this man is incapable of rage.  He must be cursed with one of those dark gloomy minds in which love always leads to jealousy.  She will never return to him.”

“One cannot say.  In many respects it would be better that she should,” said Phineas.

“She will never return to him,” repeated Violet,—­“never.  Would you advise her to do so?”

“How can I say?  If one were called upon for advice, one would think so much before one spoke.”

“I would not,—­not for a minute.  What! to be accused of that!  How are a man and woman to live together after there have been such words between them?  Poor Laura!  What a terrible end to all her high hopes!  Do you not grieve for her?”

They were now at some distance from the house, and Phineas could not but feel that chance had been very good to him in giving him his opportunity.  She was leaning on his arm, and they were alone, and she was speaking to him with all the familiarity of old friendship.  “I wonder whether I may change the subject,” said he, “and ask you a word about yourself?”

“What word?” she said sharply.

“I have heard—­”

“What have you heard?”

“Simply this,—­that you are not now as you were six months ago.  Your marriage was then fixed for June.”

“It has been unfixed since then,” she said.

“Yes;—­it has been unfixed.  I know it.  Miss Effingham, you will not be angry with me if I say that when I heard it was so, something of a hope,—­no, I must not call it a hope,—­something that longed to form itself into hope returned to my breast, and from that hour to this has been the only subject on which I have cared to think.”

“Lord Chiltern is your friend, Mr. Finn?”

“He is so, and I do not think that I have ever been untrue to my friendship for him.”

“He says that no man has ever had a truer friend.  He will swear to that in all companies.  And I, when it was allowed to me to swear with him, swore it too.  As his friend, let me tell you one thing,—­one thing which I would never tell to any other man,—­one thing which I know I may tell you in confidence.  You are a gentleman, and will not break my confidence?”

“I think I will not.”