uld not have made such a
shipwreck of myself as I have done. That is all I had to say to you.
After what has passed between us I did not choose that you should
hear how I was separated from my husband from any lips but my own.
I will go now and find papa. Do not come with me. I prefer being
alone." Then he was left standing by himself, looking down upon the
river as it glided by. How would it have been with both of them if
Lady Laura had accepted him three years ago, when she consented to
join her lot with that of Mr. Kennedy, and had rejected him? As he
stood he heard the sound of music from the house, and remembered
that he had come there with the one sole object of seeing Violet
Effingham. He had known that he would meet Lady Laura, and it had
been in his mind to break through that law of silence which she had
imposed upon him, and once more to ask her to assist him,--to implore
her for the sake of their old friendship to tell him whether there
might yet be for him any chance of success. But in the interview
which had just taken place it had been impossible for him to speak
a word of himself or of Violet. To her, in her great desolation,
he could address himself on no other subject than that of her own
misery. But not the less when she was talking to him of her own
sorrow, of her regret that she had not listened to him when in years
past he had spoken slightingly of Mr. Kennedy, was he thinking of
Violet Effingham. Mr. Kennedy had certainly mistaken the signs of
things when he had accused his wife by saying that Phineas was her
lover. Phineas had soon got over that early feeling; and as far as he
himself was concerned had never regretted Lady Laura's marriage.

He remained down by the water for a few minutes, giving Lady Laura
time to escape, and then he wandered across the grounds towards the
house. It was now about nine o'clock, and though there were still
many walking about the grounds, the crowd of people were in the
rooms. The musicians were ranged out on a verandah, so that their
music might have been available for dancing within or without; but
the dancers had found the boards pleasanter than the lawn, and the
Duke's garden party was becoming a mere ball, with privilege for the
dancers to stroll about the lawn between the dances. And in this
respect the fun was better than at a ball,--that let the engagements
made for partners be what they might, they could always be broken
with ease. No lady felt herself bou