“Not in Ireland!” exclaimed Lord Chiltern.

“Not unless I should have to examine one as a witness.  I have nothing before me but downright hard work; and a great deal of that must be done before I can hope to earn a shilling.”

“But you are so clever,” said Violet.  “Of course it will come quickly.”

“I do not mean to be impatient about it, nor yet unhappy,” said Phineas.  “Only hunting won’t be much in my line.”

“And will you leave London altogether?” Violet asked.

“Altogether.  I shall stick to one club,—­Brooks’s; but I shall take my name off all the others.”

“What a deuce of a nuisance!” said Lord Chiltern.

“I have no doubt you will be very happy,” said Violet; “and you’ll be a Lord Chancellor in no time.  But you won’t go quite yet.”

“Next Sunday.”

“You will return.  You must be here for our wedding;—­indeed you must.  I will not be married unless you do.”

Even this, however, was impossible.  He must go on Sunday, and must return no more.  Then he made his little farewell speech, which he could not deliver without some awkward stuttering.  He would think of her on the day of her marriage, and pray that she might be happy.  And he would send her a little trifle before he went, which he hoped she would wear in remembrance of their old friendship.

“She shall wear it, whatever it is, or I’ll know the reason why,” said Chiltern.

“Hold your tongue, you rough bear!” said Violet.  “Of course I’ll wear it.  And of course I’ll think of the giver.  I shall have many presents, but few that I will think of so much.”  Then Phineas left the room, with his throat so full that he could not speak another word.

“He is still broken-hearted about you,” said the favoured lover as soon as his rival had left the room.

“It is not that,” said Violet.  “He is broken-hearted about everything.  The whole world is vanishing away from him.  I wish he could have made up his mind to marry that German woman with all the money.”  It must be understood, however, that Phineas had never spoken a word to any one as to the offer which the German woman had made to him.

It was on the morning of the Sunday on which he was to leave London that he saw Lady Laura.  He had asked that it might be so, in order that he might then have nothing more upon his mind.  He found her quite alone, and he could see by her eyes that she had been weeping.  As he looked at her, remembering that it was not yet six years since he had first been allowed to enter that room, he could not but perceive how very much she was altered in appearance.  Then she had been three-and-twenty, and had not looked to be a day older.  Now she might have been taken to be nearly forty, so much had her troubles preyed upon her spirit, and eaten into the vitality of her youth.  “So you have come to say good-bye,” she said, smiling as she rose to meet him.