To become a member of the British Parliament!  In all those hot contests at the two debating clubs to which he had belonged, this had been the ambition which had moved him.  For, after all, to what purpose of their own had those empty debates ever tended?  He and three or four others who had called themselves Liberals had been pitted against four or five who had called themselves Conservatives, and night after night they had discussed some ponderous subject without any idea that one would ever persuade another, or that their talking would ever conduce to any action or to any result.  But each of these combatants had felt,—­without daring to announce a hope on the subject among themselves,—­that the present arena was only a trial-ground for some possible greater amphitheatre, for some future debating club in which debates would lead to action, and in which eloquence would have power, even though persuasion might be out of the question.

Phineas certainly had never dared to speak, even to himself, of such a hope.  The labours of the Bar had to be encountered before the dawn of such a hope could come to him.  And he had gradually learned to feel that his prospects at the Bar were not as yet very promising.  As regarded professional work he had been idle, and how then could he have a hope?

And now this thing, which he regarded as being of all things in the world the most honourable, had come to him all at once, and was possibly within his reach!  If he could believe Barrington Erle, he had only to lift up his hand, and he might be in Parliament within two months.  And who was to be believed on such a subject if not Barrington Erle?  This was Erle’s special business, and such a man would not have come to him on such a subject had he not been in earnest, and had he not himself believed in success.  There was an opening ready, an opening to this great glory,—­if only it might be possible for him to fill it!

What would his father say?  His father would of course oppose the plan.  And if he opposed his father, his father would of course stop his income.  And such an income as it was!  Could it be that a man should sit in Parliament and live upon a hundred and fifty pounds a year?  Since that payment of his debts he had become again embarrassed,—­to a slight amount.  He owed a tailor a trifle, and a bootmaker a trifle,—­and something to the man who sold gloves and shirts; and yet he had done his best to keep out of debt with more than Irish pertinacity, living very closely, breakfasting upon tea and a roll, and dining frequently for a shilling at a luncheon-house up a court near Lincoln’s Inn.  Where should he dine if the Loughshaners elected him to Parliament?  And then he painted to himself a not untrue picture of the probable miseries of a man who begins life too high up on the ladder,—­who succeeds in mounting before he has learned how to hold on when he is aloft.  For our Phineas Finn was a young man not without sense,—­not entirely