having used the borough as a most convenient stepping-stone over his difficulties, and having so used it just at the time when he was committing this sin.  There was a good fortune about Phineas which added greatly to the lord’s wrath.  And then, to tell the truth, he had not that rich consolation for which Phineas gave him credit.  Lord Chiltern had told him that morning that the engagement between him and Violet was at an end.  “You have so preached to her, my lord, about my duties,” the son had said to his father, “that she finds herself obliged to give me your sermons at second hand, till I can bear them no longer.”  But of this Phineas knew nothing as yet.  The Earl, however, was so imprudent in his anger that before this interview was over he had told the whole story.  “Yes;—­you deceived me,” he continued; “and I can never trust you again.”

“Was it for me, my lord, to tell you of that which would have increased your anger against your own son?  When he wanted me to fight was I to come, like a sneak at school, and tell you the story?  I know what you would have thought of me had I done so.  And when it was over was I to come and tell you then?  Think what you yourself would have done when you were young, and you may be quite sure that I did the same.  What have I gained?  He has got all that he wanted; and you have also got all that you wanted;—­and I have helped you both.  Lord Brentford, I can put my hand on my heart and say that I have been honest to you.”

“I have got nothing that I wanted,” said the Earl in his despair.

“Lord Chiltern and Miss Effingham will be man and wife.”

“No;—­they will not.  He has quarrelled with her.  He is so obstinate that she will not bear with him.”

Then it was all true, even though the rumours had reached him through Laurence Fitzgibbon and Madame Max Goesler.  “At any rate, my lord, that has not been my fault,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation.  The Earl was walking up and down the room, angry with himself at his own mistake in having told the story, and not knowing what further to say to his visitor.  He had been in the habit of talking so freely to Phineas about his son that he could hardly resist the temptation of doing so still; and yet it was impossible that he could swallow his anger and continue in the same strain.  “My lord,” said Phineas, after a while, “I can assure you that I grieve that you should be grieved.  I have received so much undeserved favour from your family, that I owe you a debt which I can never pay.  I am sorry that you should be angry with me now; but I hope that a time may come when you will think less severely of my conduct.”

He was about to leave the room when the Earl stopped him.  “Will you give me your word,” said the Earl, “that you will think no more of Miss Effingham?” Phineas stood silent, considering how he might answer this proposal, resolving that nothing should bring him to such a pledge as that suggested while there was yet a ledge for hope to stand on.  “Say that, Mr. Finn, and I will forgive everything.”