“He has probably tendered his resignation,” said Mr. Kennedy.

“That is the same thing,” said Phineas, roughly.

“Not exactly,” said Lady Laura.  “Should there be any difficulty about Mr. Mildmay, he might, at the Queen’s request, make another attempt.”

“With a majority of nineteen against him!” said Phineas.  “Surely Mr. Mildmay is not the only man in the country.  There is the Duke, and there is Mr. Gresham,—­and there is Mr. Monk.”  Phineas had at his tongue’s end all the lesson that he had been able to learn at the Reform Club.

“I should hardly think the Duke would venture,” said Mr. Kennedy.

“Nothing venture, nothing have,” said Phineas.  “It is all very well to say that the Duke is incompetent, but I do not know that anything very wonderful is required in the way of genius.  The Duke has held his own in both Houses successfully, and he is both honest and popular.  I quite agree that a Prime Minister at the present day should be commonly honest, and more than commonly popular.”

“So you are all for the Duke, are you?” said Lady Laura, again smiling as she spoke to him.

“Certainly;—­if we are deserted by Mr. Mildmay.  Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t find it quite so easy to make up my mind as you do.  I am inclined to think that Mr. Mildmay will form a government; and as long as there is that prospect, I need hardly commit myself to an opinion as to his probable successor.”  Then the objectionable Mr. Kennedy took his leave, and Phineas was left alone with Lady Laura.

“It is glorious;—­is it not?” he began, as soon as he found the field to be open for himself and his own manoeuvring.  But he was very young, and had not as yet learned the manner in which he might best advance his cause with such a woman as Lady Laura Standish.  He was telling her too clearly that he could have no gratification in talking with her unless he could be allowed to have her all to himself.  That might be very well if Lady Laura were in love with him, but would hardly be the way to reduce her to that condition.

“Mr. Finn,” said she, smiling as she spoke, “I am sure that you did not mean it, but you were uncourteous to my friend Mr. Kennedy.”

“Who?  I?  Was I?  Upon my word, I didn’t intend to be uncourteous.”

“If I had thought you had intended it, of course I could not tell you of it.  And now I take the liberty;—­for it is a liberty—­”

“Oh no.”

“Because I feel so anxious that you should do nothing to mar your chances as a rising man.”

“You are only too kind to me,—­always.”

“I know how clever you are, and how excellent are all your instincts; but I see that you are a little impetuous.  I wonder whether you will be angry if I take upon myself the task of mentor.”

“Nothing you could say would make me angry,—­though you might make me very unhappy.”

“I will not do that if I can help it.  A mentor ought to be very old, you know, and I am infinitely older than you are.”