“With all my bones unbroken?” said he, laughing.

“Yes; with all your bones unbroken.  You know, Phineas, when we first heard that you were to sit in Parliament, we were afraid that you might break a rib or two,—­since you choose to talk about the breaking of bones.”

“Yes, I know.  Everybody thought I should come to grief; but nobody felt so sure of it as I did myself.”

“But you have not come to grief.”

“I am not out of the wood yet, you know, Mrs. Flood Jones.  There is plenty of possibility for grief in my way still.”

“As far as I can understand it, you are out of the wood.  All that your friends here want to see now is, that you should marry some nice English girl, with a little money, if possible.  Rumours have reached us, you know.”

“Rumours always lie,” said Phineas.

“Sometimes they do, of course; and I am not going to ask any indiscreet questions.  But that is what we all hope.  Mary was saying, only the other day, that if you were once married, we should all feel quite safe about you.  And you know we all take the most lively interest in your welfare.  It is not every day that a man from County Clare gets on as you have done, and therefore we are bound to think of you.”  Thus Mrs. Flood Jones signified to Phineas Finn that she had forgiven him the thoughtlessness of his early youth,—­even though there had been something of treachery in that thoughtlessness to her own daughter; and showed him, also, that whatever Mary’s feelings might have been once, they were not now of a nature to trouble her.  “Of course you will marry?” said Mrs. Flood Jones.

“I should think very likely not,” said Phineas, who perhaps looked farther into the mind of the lady than the lady intended.

“Oh, do,” said the lady.  “Every man should marry as soon as he can, and especially a man in your position.”

When the ladies met together in the drawing-room after dinner, it was impossible but that they should discuss Mr. Monk.  There was Mrs. Callaghan from the brewery there, and old Lady Blood, of Bloodstone,—­who on ordinary occasions would hardly admit that she was on dining-out terms with any one in Killaloe except the bishop, but who had found it impossible to decline to meet a Cabinet Minister,—­and there was Mrs. Stackpoole from Sixmiletown, a far-away cousin of the Finns, who hated Lady Blood with a true provincial hatred.

“I don’t see anything particularly uncommon in him, after all,” said Lady Blood.

“I think he is very nice indeed,” said Mrs. Flood Jones.

“So very quiet, my dear, and just like other people,” said Mrs. Callaghan, meaning to pronounce a strong eulogium on the Cabinet Minister.

“Very like other people indeed,” said Lady Blood.

“And what would you expect, Lady Blood?” said Mrs. Stackpoole.  “Men and women in London walk upon two legs, just as they do in Ennis.”  Now Lady Blood herself had been born and bred in Ennis, whereas Mrs. Stackpoole had come from Limerick, which is a much more considerable town, and therefore there was a satire in this allusion to the habits of the men of Ennis which Lady Blood understood thoroughly.