hich he had written to his
lordship. From Lady Laura he did hear frequently. Lady Laura wrote to
him exactly as though she had never warned him away from Loughlinter,
and as though there had been no occasion for such warning. She sent
him letters filled chiefly with politics, saying something also of
the guests at Loughlinter, something of the game, and just a word
or two here and there of her husband. The letters were very good
letters, and he preserved them carefully. It was manifest to him that
they were intended to be good letters, and, as such, to be preserved.
In one of these, which he received about the end of November,
she told him that her brother was again in his old haunt, at the
Willingford Bull, and that he had sent to Portman Square for all
property of his own that had been left there. But there was no word
in that letter of Violet Effingham; and though Lady Laura did speak
more than once of Violet, she always did so as though Violet were
simply a joint acquaintance of herself and her correspondent. There
was no allusion to the existence of any special regard on his part
for Miss Effingham. He had thought that Violet might probably tell
her friend what had occurred at Saulsby;--but if she did so, Lady
Laura was happy in her powers of reticence. Our hero was disturbed
also when he reached home by finding that Mrs. Flood Jones and Miss
Flood Jones had retired from Killaloe for the winter. I do not know
whether he might not have been more disturbed by the presence of the
young lady, for he would have found himself constrained to exhibit
towards her some tenderness of manner; and any such tenderness of
manner would, in his existing circumstances, have been dangerous. But
he was made to understand that Mary Flood Jones had been taken away
from Killaloe because it was thought that he had ill-treated the
lady, and the accusation made him unhappy. In the middle of the heat
of the last session he had received a letter from his sister, in
which some pushing question had been asked as to his then existing
feeling about poor Mary. This he had answered petulantly. Nothing
more had been written to him about Miss Jones, and nothing was said
to him when he reached home. He could not, however, but ask after
Mary, and when he did ask, the accusation was made again in that
quietly severe manner with which, perhaps, most of us have been made
acquainted at some period of our lives. "I think, Phineas," said his
sister, "we had