“No disgrace, certainly,” said Phineas.

“But I am nobody,—­or worse than nobody.”

“And I also am going to be a nobody,” said Phineas, laughing.

“Ah; you are a man and will get over it, and you have many years before you will begin to be growing old.  I am growing old already.  Yes, I am.  I feel it, and know it, and see it.  A woman has a fine game to play; but then she is so easily bowled out, and the term allowed to her is so short.”

“A man’s allowance of time may be short too,” said Phineas.

“But he can try his hand again.”  Then there was another pause.  “I had thought, Mr. Finn, that you would have married,” she said in her very lowest voice.

“You knew all my hopes and fears about that.”

“I mean that you would have married Madame Goesler.”

“What made you think that, Lady Laura?”

“Because I saw that she liked you, and because such a marriage would have been so suitable.  She has all that you want.  You know what they say of her now?”

“What do they say?”

“That the Duke of Omnium offered to make her his wife, and that she refused him for your sake.”

“There is nothing that people won’t say;—­nothing on earth,” said Phineas.  Then he got up and took his leave of her.  He also wanted to part from her with some special expression of affection, but he did not know how to choose his words.  He had wished that some allusion should be made, not to the Braes of Linter, but to the close confidence which had so long existed between them; but he found that the language to do this properly was wanting to him.  Had the opportunity arisen he would have told her now the whole story of Mary Flood Jones; but the opportunity did not come, and he left her, never having mentioned the name of his Mary or having hinted at his engagement to any one of his friends in London.  “It is better so,” he said to himself.  “My life in Ireland is to be a new life, and why should I mix two things together that will be so different?”

He was to dine at his lodgings, and then leave them for good at eight o’clock.  He had packed up everything before he went to Portman Square, and he returned home only just in time to sit down to his solitary mutton chop.  But as he sat down he saw a small note addressed to himself lying on the table among the crowd of books, letters, and papers, of which he had still to make disposal.  It was a very small note in an envelope of a peculiar tint of pink, and he knew the handwriting well.  The blood mounted all over his face as he took it up, and he hesitated for a moment before he opened it.  It could not be that the offer should be repeated to him.  Slowly, hardly venturing at first to look at the enclosure, he opened it, and the words which it contained were as follows:—­

I learn that you are going to-day, and I write a word which you will receive just as you are departing.  It is to say merely this,—­that when I left you the other day I was angry, not with you, but with myself.  Let me wish you all good wishes and that prosperity which I know you will deserve, and which I think you will win.

   Yours very truly,