There was a large dinner party at the doctor’s on the day after Mr. Monk’s arrival.  The bishop was not there, though he was on terms sufficiently friendly with the doctor’s family to have been invited on so grand an occasion; but he was not there, because Mrs. Finn was determined that she would be taken out to dinner by a Cabinet Minister in the face of all her friends.  She was aware that had the bishop been there, she must have taken the bishop’s arm.  And though there would have been glory in that, the other glory was more to her taste.  It was the first time in her life that she had ever seen a Cabinet Minister, and I think that she was a little disappointed at finding him so like other middle-aged gentlemen.  She had hoped that Mr. Monk would have assumed something of the dignity of his position; but he assumed nothing.  Now the bishop, though he was a very mild man, did assume something by the very facts of his apron and knee-breeches.

“I am sure, sir, it is very good of you to come and put up with our humble way of living,” said Mrs. Finn to her guest, as they sat down at table.  And yet she had resolved that she would not make any speech of the kind,—­that she would condescend to no apology,—­that she would bear herself as though a Cabinet Minister dined with her at least once a year.  But when the moment came, she broke down, and made this apology with almost abject meekness, and then hated herself because she had done so.

“My dear madam,” said Mr. Monk, “I live myself so much like a hermit that your house is a palace of luxury to me.”  Then he felt that he had made a foolish speech, and he also hated himself.  He found it very difficult to talk to his hostess upon any subject, until by chance he mentioned his young friend Phineas.  Then her tongue was unloosed.  “Your son, madam,” he said, “is going with me to Limerick and back to Dublin.  It is a shame, I know, taking him so soon away from home, but I should not know how to get on without him.”

“Oh, Mr. Monk, it is such a blessing for him, and such an honour for us, that you should be so good to him.”  Then the mother spoke out all her past fears and all her present hopes, and acknowledged the great glory which it was to her to have a son sitting in Parliament, holding an office with a stately name and a great salary, and blessed with the friendship of such a man as Mr. Monk.  After that Mr. Monk got on better with her.

“I don’t know any young man,” said he, “in whose career I have taken so strong an interest.”

“He was always good,” said Mrs. Finn, with a tear forcing itself into the corner of each eye.  “I am his mother, and of course I ought not to say so,—­not in this way; but it is true, Mr. Monk.”  And then the poor lady was obliged to raise her handkerchief and wipe away the drops.

Phineas on this occasion had taken out to dinner the mother of his devoted Mary, Mrs. Flood Jones.  “What a pleasure it must be to the doctor and Mrs. Finn to see you come back in this way,” said Mrs. Flood Jones.