Monk’s meaning.  “If you choose to make Parliament a profession,—­as you have chosen,—­you can have no right even to think of independence.  If the country finds you out when you are in Parliament, and then invites you to office, of course the thing is different.  But the latter is a slow career, and probably would not have suited you.”  That was the meaning of what Mr. Monk said to him.  After all, these official and parliamentary honours were greater when seen at a distance than he found them to be now that he possessed them.  Mr. Low worked ten hours a day, and could rarely call a day his own; but, after all, with all this work, Mr. Low was less of a slave, and more independent, than was he, Phineas Finn, Under-Secretary of State, the friend of Cabinet Ministers, and Member of Parliament since his twenty-fifth year!  He began to dislike the House, and to think it a bore to sit on the Treasury bench;—­he, who a few years since had regarded Parliament as the British heaven on earth, and who, since he had been in Parliament, had looked at that bench with longing envious eyes.  Laurence Fitzgibbon, who seemed to have as much to eat and drink as ever, and a bed also to lie on, could come and go in the House as he pleased, since his—­resignation.

And there was a new trouble coming.  The Reform Bill for England had passed; but now there was to be another Reform Bill for Ireland.  Let them pass what bill they might, this would not render necessary a new Irish election till the entire House should be dissolved.  But he feared that he would be called upon to vote for the abolition of his own borough,—­and for other points almost equally distasteful to him.  He knew that he would not be consulted,—­but would be called upon to vote, and perhaps to speak; and was certain that if he did so, there would be war between him and his constituents.  Lord Tulla had already communicated to him his ideas that, for certain excellent reasons, Loughshane ought to be spared.  But this evil was, he hoped, a distant one.  It was generally thought that, as the English Reform Bill had been passed last year, and as the Irish bill, if carried, could not be immediately operative, the doing of the thing might probably be postponed to the next session.

When he first saw Lady Laura he was struck by the great change in her look and manner.  She seemed to him to be old and worn, and he judged her to be wretched,—­as she was.  She had written to him to say that she would be at her father’s house on such and such a morning, and he had gone to her there.  “It is of no use your coming to Grosvenor Place,” she said.  “I see nobody there, and the house is like a prison.”  Later in the interview she told him not to come and dine there, even though Mr. Kennedy should ask him.

“And why not?” he demanded.

“Because everything would be stiff, and cold, and uncomfortable.  I suppose you do not wish to make your way into a lady’s house if she asks you not.”  There was a sort of smile on her face as she said this, but he could perceive that it was a very bitter smile.  “You can easily excuse yourself.”