And then he thought of Violet,—­of Violet again free, of Violet as again a possible wife for himself, of Violet to whom he might address himself at any rate without any scruple as to his own unworthiness.  Everybody concerned, and many who were not concerned at all, were aware that he had been among her lovers, and he thought that he could perceive that those who interested themselves on the subject, had regarded him as the only horse in the race likely to run with success against Lord Chiltern.  She herself had received his offers without scorn, and had always treated him as though he were a favoured friend, though not favoured as a lover.  And now even Lady Baldock was smiling upon him, and asking him to her house as though the red-faced porter in the hall in Berkeley Square had never been ordered to refuse him a moment’s admission inside the doors.  He had been very humble in speaking of his own hopes to the Earl, but surely there might be a chance.  What if after all the little strain which he had had in his back was to be cured after such a fashion as this!  When he got to his lodgings, he found a card from Lady Baldock, informing him that Lady Baldock would be at home on a certain night, and that there would be music.  He could not go to Lady Baldock’s on the night named, as it would be necessary that he should be in the House;—­nor did he much care to go there, as Violet Effingham was not in town.  But he would call and explain, and endeavour to curry favour in that way.

He at once wrote a note to Lord Chiltern, which he addressed to Portman Square.  “As you are in town, can we not meet?  Come and dine with me at the ——­ Club on Saturday.”  That was the note.  After a few days he received the following answer, dated from the Bull at Willingford.  Why on earth should Chiltern be staying at the Bull at Willingford in May?

   The old Shop at W——­, Friday.

   DEAR PHINEAS,

I can’t dine with you, because I am down here, looking after the cripples, and writing a sporting novel.  They tell me I ought to do something, so I am going to do that.  I hope you don’t think I turned informer against you in telling the Earl of our pleasant little meeting on the sands.  It had become necessary, and you are too much of a man to care much for any truth being told.  He was terribly angry both with me and with you; but the fact is, he is so blindly unreasonable that one cannot regard his anger.  I endeavoured to tell the story truly, and, so told, it certainly should not have injured you in his estimation.  But it did.  Very sorry, old fellow, and I hope you’ll get over it.  It is a good deal more important to me than to you.

   Yours,

   C.