“It is so hard that you should be driven away.”  She did not answer him for a while, and he was beginning to think of his own case also.  Was it not hard that he too should be driven away?  “It is odd enough that we should both be going at the same time.”

“But you will not go?”

“I think I shall.  I have resolved upon this,—­that if I give up my place, I will give up my seat too.  I went into Parliament with the hope of office, and how can I remain there when I shall have gained it and then have lost it?”

“But you will stay in London, Mr. Finn?”

“I think not.  After all that has come and gone I should not be happy here, and I should make my way easier and on cheaper terms in Dublin.  My present idea is that I shall endeavour to make a practice over in my own country.  It will be hard work beginning at the bottom;—­will it not?”

“And so unnecessary.”

“Ah, Lady Laura,—­if it only could be avoided!  But it is of no use going through all that again.”

“How much we would both of us avoid if we could only have another chance!” said Lady Laura.  “If I could only be as I was before I persuaded myself to marry a man whom I never loved, what a paradise the earth would be to me!  With me all regrets are too late.”

“And with me as much so.”

“No, Mr. Finn.  Even should you resign your office, there is no reason why you should give up your seat.”

“Simply that I have no income to maintain me in London.”

She was silent for a few moments, during which she changed her seat so as to come nearer to him, placing herself on a corner of a sofa close to the chair on which he was seated.  “I wonder whether I may speak to you plainly,” she said.

“Indeed you may.”

“On any subject?”

“Yes;—­on any subject.”

“I trust you have been able to rid your bosom of all remembrances of Violet Effingham.”

“Certainly not of all remembrances, Lady Laura.”

“Of all hope, then?”

“I have no such hope.”

“And of all lingering desires?”

“Well, yes;—­and of all lingering desires.  I know now that it cannot be.  Your brother is welcome to her.”

“Ah;—­of that I know nothing.  He, with his perversity, has estranged her.  But I am sure of this,—­that if she do not marry him, she will marry no one.  But it is not on account of him that I speak.  He must fight his own battles now.”

“I shall not interfere with him, Lady Laura.”

“Then why should you not establish yourself by a marriage that will make place a matter of indifference to you?  I know that it is within your power to do so.”  Phineas put his hand up to his breastcoat pocket, and felt that Mary’s letter,—­her precious letter,—­was there safe.  It certainly was not in his power to do this thing which Lady Laura recommended to him, but he hardly thought that the present was a moment suitable for explaining to her the nature of the impediment which stood in the way of such an arrangement.  He had so lately spoken to Lady Laura with an assurance of undying constancy of his love for Miss Effingham, that he could not as yet acknowledge the force of another passion.  He shook his head by way of reply.  “I tell you that it is so,” she said with energy.