“My opinion is,” said Bonteen, “that a man should be known either as a friend or foe.  I respect a declared foe.”

“Know me as a declared foe then,” said Phineas, “and respect me.”

“That’s all very well,” said Ratler, “but it means nothing.  I’ve always had a sort of fear about you, Finn, that you would go over the traces some day.  Of course it’s a very grand thing to be independent.”

“The finest thing in the world,” said Bonteen; “only so d——­d useless.”

“But a man shouldn’t be independent and stick to the ship at the same time.  You forget the trouble you cause, and how you upset all calculations.”

“I hadn’t thought of the calculations,” said Phineas.

“The fact is, Finn,” said Bonteen, “you are made of clay too fine for office.  I’ve always found it has been so with men from your country.  You are the grandest horses in the world to look at out on a prairie, but you don’t like the slavery of harness.”

“And the sound of a whip over our shoulders sets us kicking;—­does it not, Ratler?”

“I shall show the list to Gresham to-morrow,” said Ratler, “and of course he can do as he pleases; but I don’t understand this kind of thing.”

“Don’t you be in a hurry,” said Bonteen.  “I’ll bet you a sovereign Finn votes with us yet.  There’s nothing like being a little coy to set off a girl’s charms.  I’ll bet you a sovereign, Ratler, that Finn goes out into the lobby with you and me against Monk’s bill.”

Phineas, not being able to stand any more of this most unpleasant raillery, got up and went away.  The club was distasteful to him, and he walked off and sauntered for a while about the park.  He went down by the Duke of York’s column as though he were going to his office, which of course was closed at this hour, but turned round when he got beyond the new public buildings,—­buildings which he was never destined to use in their completed state,—­and entered the gates of the enclosure, and wandered on over the bridge across the water.  As he went his mind was full of thought.  Could it be good for him to give up everything for a fair face?  He swore to himself that of all women whom he had ever seen Mary was the sweetest and the dearest and the best.  If it could be well to lose the world for a woman, it would be well to lose it for her.  Violet, with all her skill, and all her strength, and all her grace, could never have written such a letter as that which he still held in his pocket.  The best charm of a woman is that she should be soft, and trusting, and generous; and who ever had been more soft, more trusting, and more generous than his Mary?  Of course he would be true to her, though he did lose the world.