the subject," said he, "and ask you a
word about yourself?"

"What word?" she said sharply.

"I have heard--"

"What have you heard?"

"Simply this,--that you are not now as you were six months ago. Your
marriage was then fixed for June."

"It has been unfixed since then," she said.

"Yes;--it has been unfixed. I know it. Miss Effingham, you will not
be angry with me if I say that when I heard it was so, something of a
hope,--no, I must not call it a hope,--something that longed to form
itself into hope returned to my breast, and from that hour to this
has been the only subject on which I have cared to think."

"Lord Chiltern is your friend, Mr. Finn?"

"He is so, and I do not think that I have ever been untrue to my
friendship for him."

"He says that no man has ever had a truer friend. He will swear to
that in all companies. And I, when it was allowed to me to swear with
him, swore it too. As his friend, let me tell you one thing,--one
thing which I would never tell to any other man,--one thing which I
know I may tell you in confidence. You are a gentleman, and will not
break my confidence?"

"I think I will not."

"I know you will not, because you are a gentleman. I told Lord
Chiltern in the autumn of last year that I loved him. And I did love
him. I shall never have the same confession to make to another man.
That he and I are not now,--on those loving terms,--which once
existed, can make no difference in that. A woman cannot transfer her
heart. There have been things which have made me feel,--that I was
perhaps mistaken,--in saying that I would be,--his wife. But I said
so, and cannot now give myself to another. Here is Lord Brentford,
and we will join him." There was Lord Brentford with Lady Laura on
his arm, very gloomy,--resolving on what way he might be avenged on
the man who had insulted his daughter. He took but little notice
of Phineas as he resumed his charge of Miss Effingham; but the two
ladies wished him good night.

"Good night, Lady Laura," said Phineas, standing with his hat in his
hand,--"good night, Miss Effingham." Then he was alone,--quite alone.
Would it not be well for him to go down to the bottom of the garden,
and fling himself into the quiet river, so that there might be an
end of him? Or would it not be better still that he should create
for himself some quiet river of life, away from London, away from
politics, away from lords, and titled ladies, and fashionable
squares, a