“When you talk in that way, Mary, I know that you are laughing at me.”

“Indeed, indeed I am not.”

“I believe there is no one in the whole world,” he said, after a pause, “whose friendship is more to me than yours is.  I think of it so often, Mary.  Say that when we come back it shall be between us as it used to be.”  Then he put out his hand for hers, and she could not help giving it to him.  “Of course there will be people,” he said, “who talk nonsense, and one cannot help it; but I will not put up with it from you.”

“I did not mean to talk nonsense, Phineas!” Then there came some one across them, and the conversation was ended; but the sound of his voice remained on her ears, and she could not help but remember that he had declared that her friendship was dearer to him than the friendship of any one else.

Phineas went with Mr. Monk first to Limerick and then to Dublin, and found himself at both places to be regarded as a hero only second to the great hero.  At both places the one subject of debate was tenant-right;—­could anything be done to make it profitable for men with capital to put their capital into Irish land?  The fertility of the soil was questioned by no one,—­nor the sufficiency of external circumstances, such as railroads and the like;—­nor the abundance of labour;—­nor even security for the wealth to be produced.  The only difficulty was in this, that the men who were to produce the wealth had no guarantee that it would be theirs when it was created.  In England and elsewhere such guarantees were in existence.  Might it not be possible to introduce them into Ireland?  That was the question which Mr. Monk had in hand; and in various speeches which he made both before and after the dinners given to him, he pledged himself to keep it well in hand when Parliament should meet.  Of course Phineas spoke also.  It was impossible that he should be silent when his friend and leader was pouring out his eloquence.  Of course he spoke, and of course he pledged himself.  Something like the old pleasures of the debating society returned to him, as standing upon a platform before a listening multitude, he gave full vent to his words.  In the House of Commons, of late he had been so cabined, cribbed, and confined by office as to have enjoyed nothing of this.  Indeed, from the commencement of his career, he had fallen so thoroughly into the decorum of Government ways, as to have missed altogether the delights of that wild irresponsible oratory of which Mr. Monk had spoken to him so often.  He had envied men below the gangway, who, though supporting the Government on main questions, could get up on their legs whenever the House was full enough to make it worth their while, and say almost whatever they pleased.  There was that Mr. Robson, who literally did say just what came uppermost; and the thing that came uppermost was often ill-natured, often unbecoming the gravity of the House, was always startling; but men listened to him and liked him to speak.  But Mr. Robson had—­married a woman with money.  Oh, why,—­why, had not Violet Effingham been kinder to him?  He might even yet, perhaps, marry a woman with money.  But he could not bring himself to do so unless he loved her.