“Your mother says that she has some idea that you and she might live together;—­that if they let Floodborough you might take a small house in Dublin.  Remember, Phineas, I am not proposing it myself.”

Then Phineas bethought himself that he was not even yet so low in the world that he need submit himself to terms dictated to him by Mrs. Flood Jones.  “I am glad that you do not propose it, sir.”

“Why so, Phineas?”

“Because I should have been obliged to oppose the plan even if it had come from you.  Mothers-in-law are never a comfort in a house.”

“I never tried it myself,” said the doctor.

“And I never will try it.  I am quite sure that Mary does not expect any such thing, and that she is willing to wait.  If I can shorten the term of waiting by hard work, I will do so.”  The decision to which Phineas had come on this matter was probably made known to Mrs. Flood Jones after some mild fashion by old Mrs. Finn.  Nothing more was said to Phineas about a joint household; but he was quite able to perceive from the manner of the lady towards him that his proposed mother-in-law wished him to understand that he was treating her daughter very badly.  What did it signify?  None of them knew the story of Madame Goesler, and of course none of them would know it.  None of them would ever hear how well he had behaved to his little Mary.

But Mary did know it all before he left her to go up to Dublin.  The two lovers allowed themselves,—­or were allowed by their elders, one week of exquisite bliss together; and during this week, Phineas told her, I think, everything.  He told her everything as far as he could do so without seeming to boast of his own successes.  How is a man not to tell such tales when he has on his arm, close to him, a girl who tells him her little everything of life, and only asks for his confidence in return?  And then his secrets are so precious to her and so sacred, that he feels as sure of her fidelity as though she were a very goddess of faith and trust.  And the temptation to tell is so great.  For all that he has to tell she loves him the better and still the better.  A man desires to win a virgin heart, and is happy to know,—­or at least to believe,—­that he has won it.  With a woman every former rival is an added victim to the wheels of the triumphant chariot in which she is sitting.  “All these has he known and loved, culling sweets from each of them.  But now he has come to me, and I am the sweetest of them all.”  And so Mary was taught to believe of Laura and of Violet and of Madame Goesler,—­that though they had had charms to please, her lover had never been so charmed as he was now while she was hanging to his breast.  And I think that she was right in her belief.  During those lovely summer evening walks along the shores of Lough Derg, Phineas was as happy as he had ever been at any moment of his life.

“I shall never be impatient,—­never,” she said to him on the last evening.  “All I want is that you should write to me.”