should go on now
that you have once begun. I do not believe in you working at the
Bar. You cannot do it. A man who has commenced life as you have done
with the excitement of politics, who has known what it is to take a
prominent part in the control of public affairs, cannot give it up
and be happy at other work. Make her your wife, and you may resign
or remain in office just as you choose. Office will be much easier
to you than it is now, because it will not be a necessity. Let me
at any rate have the pleasure of thinking that one of us can remain
here,--that we need not both fall together."

Still he did not tell her of the letter in his pocket. He felt that
she moved him,--that she made him acknowledge to himself how great
would be the pity of such a failure as would be his. He was quite as
much alive as she could be to the fact that work at the Bar, either
in London or in Dublin, would have no charms for him now. The
prospect of such a life was very dreary to him. Even with the comfort
of Mary's love such a life would be very dreary to him. And then he
knew,--he thought that he knew,--that were he to offer himself to
Madame Goesler he would not in truth be rejected. She had told him
that if poverty was a trouble to him he need be no longer poor. Of
course he had understood this. Her money was at his service if he
should choose to stoop and pick it up. And it was not only money that
such a marriage would give him. He had acknowledged to himself more
than once that Madame Goesler was very lovely, that she was clever,
attractive in every way, and as far as he could see, blessed with a
sweet temper. She had a position, too, in the world that would help
him rather than mar him. What might he not do with an independent
seat in the House of Commons, and as joint owner of the little house
in Park Lane? Of all careers which the world could offer to a man the
pleasantest would then be within his reach. "You appear to me as a
tempter," he said at last to Lady Laura.

"It is unkind of you to say that, and ungrateful. I would do anything
on earth in my power to help you."

"Nevertheless you are a tempter."

"I know how it ought to have been," she said, in a low voice. "I know
very well how it ought to have been. I should have kept myself free
till that time when we met on the braes of Loughlinter, and then all
would have been well with us."

"I do not know how that might have been," said Phineas, hoarsely.

"You do not k