Phineas liked being told that the pleasures of opposition and the pleasures of office were both open to him,—­and he liked also to be the chosen receptacle of Mr. Monk’s confidence.  He had come to understand that he was expected to remain ten days at Loughlinter, and that then there was to be a general movement.  Since the first day he had seen but little of Mr. Kennedy, but he had found himself very frequently with Lady Laura.  And then had come up the question of his projected trip to Paris with Lord Chiltern.  He had received a letter from Lord Chiltern.

   Dear Finn,

   Are you going to Paris with me?

   Yours, C.

There had been not a word beyond this, and before he answered it he made up his mind to tell Lady Laura the truth.  He could not go to Paris because he had no money.

“I’ve just got that from your brother,” said he.

“How like Oswald.  He writes to me perhaps three times in the year, and his letters are just the same.  You will go I hope?”

“Well;—­no.”

“I am sorry for that.”

“I wonder whether I may tell you the real reason, Lady Laura.”

“Nay;—­I cannot answer that; but unless it be some political secret between you and Mr. Monk, I should think you might.”

“I cannot afford to go to Paris this autumn.  It seems to be a shocking admission to make,—­though I don’t know why it should be.”

“Nor I;—­but, Mr. Finn, I like you all the better for making it.  I am very sorry, for Oswald’s sake.  It’s so hard to find any companion for him whom he would like and whom we,—­that is I,—­should think altogether—­; you know what I mean, Mr. Finn.”

“Your wish that I should go with him is a great compliment, and I thoroughly wish that I could do it.  As it is, I must go to Killaloe and retrieve my finances.  I daresay, Lady Laura, you can hardly conceive how very poor a man I am.”  There was a melancholy tone about his voice as he said this, which made her think for the moment whether or no he had been right in going into Parliament, and whether she had been right in instigating him to do so.  But it was too late to recur to that question now.

“You must climb into office early, and forego those pleasures of opposition which are so dear to Mr. Monk,” she said, smiling.  “After all, money is an accident which does not count nearly so high as do some other things.  You and Mr. Kennedy have the same enjoyment of everything around you here.”

“Yes; while it lasts.”

“And Lady Glencora and I stand pretty much on the same footing, in spite of all her wealth,—­except that she is a married woman.  I do not know what she is worth,—­something not to be counted; and I am worth,—­just what papa chooses to give me.  A ten-pound note at the present moment I should look upon as great riches.”  This was the first time she had ever spoken to him of her own position as regards money; but he had heard, or thought that he had heard, that she had been left a fortune altogether independent of her father.