He had not, since his arrival at Killaloe, been a moment alone with Mary Flood Jones till the evening before he started with Mr. Monk.  She had kept out of his way successfully, though she had constantly been with him in company, and was beginning to plume herself on the strength and valour of her conduct.  But her self-praise had in it nothing of joy, and her glory was very sad.  Of course she would care for him no more,—­more especially as it was so very evident that he cared not at all for her.  But the very fact of her keeping out of his way, made her acknowledge to herself that her position was very miserable.  She had declared to her mother that she might certainly go to Killaloe with safety,—­that it would be better for her to put herself in the way of meeting him as an old friend,—­that the idea of the necessity of shutting herself up because of his approach, was the one thing that gave her real pain.  Therefore her mother had brought her to Killaloe and she had met him; but her fancied security had deserted her, and she found herself to be miserable, hoping for something she did not know what, still dreaming of possibilities, feeling during every moment of his presence with her that some special conduct was necessary on her part.  She could not make further confession to her mother and ask to be carried back to Floodborough; but she knew that she was very wretched at Killaloe.

As for Phineas, he had felt that his old friend was very cold to him.  He was in that humour with reference to Violet Effingham which seemed especially to require consolation.  He knew now that all hope was over there.  Violet Effingham could never be his wife.  Even were she not to marry Lord Chiltern for the next five years, she would not, during those five years, marry any other man.  Such was our hero’s conviction; and, suffering under this conviction, he was in want of the comfort of feminine sympathy.  Had Mary known all this, and had it suited her to play such a part, I think she might have had Phineas at her feet before he had been a week at home.  But she had kept aloof from him and had heard nothing of his sorrows.  As a natural consequence of this, Phineas was more in love with her than ever.

On the evening before he started with Mr. Monk for Limerick, he managed to be alone with her for a few minutes.  Barbara may probably have assisted in bringing about this arrangement, and had, perhaps, been guilty of some treachery,—­sisters in such circumstances will sometimes be very treacherous to their friends.  I feel sure, however, that Mary herself was quite innocent of any guile in the matter.  “Mary,” Phineas said to her suddenly, “it seems to me that you have avoided me purposely ever since I have been at home.”  She smiled and blushed, and stammered and said nothing.  “Has there been any reason for it, Mary?”

“No reason at all that I know of,” she said.

“We used to be such great friends.”

“That was before you were a great man, Phineas.  It must necessarily be different now.  You know so many people now, and people of such a different sort, that of course I fall a little into the background.”