now. The dear old Pope was so civil
to us. I came to think it quite a pity that he should be in trouble."

"I must be off," said the husband, getting up. "But I shall meet you
at dinner, I believe."

"Do you dine at Mr. Monk's?"

"Yes, and am asked expressly to hear Turnbull make a convert of you.
There are only to be us four. Au revoir." Then Mr. Kennedy went, and
Phineas found himself alone with Lady Laura. He hardly knew how to
address her, and remained silent. He had not prepared himself for the
interview as he ought to have done, and felt himself to be awkward.
She evidently expected him to speak, and for a few seconds sat
waiting for what he might say.

At last she found that it was incumbent on her to begin. "Were you
surprised at our suddenness when you got my note?"

"A little. You had spoken of waiting."

"I had never imagined that he would have been impetuous. And he seems
to think that even the business of getting himself married would not
justify him staying away from Parliament. He is a rigid martinet in
all matters of duty."

"I did not wonder that he should be in a hurry, but that you should
submit."

"I told you that I should do just what the wise people told me. I
asked papa, and he said that it would be better. So the lawyers were
driven out of their minds, and the milliners out of their bodies, and
the thing was done."

"Who was there at the marriage?"

"Oswald was not there. That I know is what you mean to ask. Papa said
that he might come if he pleased. Oswald stipulated that he should be
received as a son. Then my father spoke the hardest word that ever
fell from his mouth."

"What did he say?"

"I will not repeat it,--not altogether. But he said that Oswald was
not entitled to a son's treatment. He was very sore about my money,
because Robert was so generous as to his settlement. So the breach
between them is as wide as ever."

"And where is Chiltern now?" said Phineas.

"Down in Northamptonshire, staying at some inn from whence he hunts.
He tells me that he is quite alone,--that he never dines out, never
has any one to dine with him, that he hunts five or six days a
week,--and reads at night."

"That is not a bad sort of life."

"Not if the reading is any good. But I cannot bear that he should be
so solitary. And if he breaks down in it, then his companions will
not be fit for him. Do you ever hunt?"

"Oh yes,--at home in county Clare. All Irishmen hunt."

"I wish you