life for her must be a matter of business.  Was it not the case with nine out of every ten among mankind, with nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand, that life must be a matter of business and not of romance?  Of course she could not marry Mr. Finn, knowing, as she did, that neither of them had a shilling.  Of all men in the world she esteemed Mr. Kennedy the most, and when these thoughts were passing through her mind, she was well aware that he would ask her to be his wife.  Had she not resolved that she would accept the offer, she would not have gone to Loughlinter.  Having put aside all romance as unfitted to her life, she could, she thought, do her duty as Mr. Kennedy’s wife.  She would teach herself to love him.  Nay,—­she had taught herself to love him.  She was at any rate so sure of her own heart that she would never give her husband cause to rue the confidence he placed in her.  And yet there was something sore within her when she thought that Phineas Finn was fond of Violet Effingham.

It was Lady Baldock’s second evening, and Phineas came to the house at about eleven o’clock.  At this time he had encountered a second and a third interview with Mr. Clarkson, and had already failed in obtaining any word of comfort from Laurence Fitzgibbon about the bill.  It was clear enough now that Laurence felt that they were both made safe by their privilege, and that Mr. Clarkson should be treated as you treat the organ-grinders.  They are a nuisance and must be endured.  But the nuisance is not so great but what you can live in comfort,—­if only you are not too sore as to the annoyance.  “My dear fellow,” Laurence had said to him, “I have had Clarkson almost living in my rooms.  He used to drink nearly a pint of sherry a day for me.  All I looked to was that I didn’t live there at the same time.  If you wish it, I’ll send in the sherry.”  This was very bad, and Phineas tried to quarrel with his friend; but he found that it was difficult to quarrel with Laurence Fitzgibbon.

But though on this side Phineas was very miserable, on another side he had obtained great comfort.  Mr. Monk and he were better friends than ever.  “As to what Turnbull says about me in the House,” Mr. Monk had said, laughing; “he and I understand each other perfectly.  I should like to see you on your legs, but it is just as well, perhaps, that you have deferred it.  We shall have the real question on immediately after Easter, and then you’ll have plenty of opportunities.”  Phineas had explained how he had attempted, how he had failed, and how he had suffered;—­and Mr. Monk had been generous in his sympathy.  “I know all about it,” said he, “and have gone through it all myself.  The more respect you feel for the House, the more satisfaction you will have in addressing it when you have mastered this difficulty.”