Everything around him had collapsed,—­with, however, a terrible temptation to him to inflate his sails again, at the cost of his truth and his honour.  The temptation would have affected him not at all, had Madame Goesler been ugly, stupid, or personally disagreeable.  But she was, he thought, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, the most witty, and in many respects the most charming.  She had offered to give him everything that she had, so to place him in the world that opposition would be more pleasant to him than office, to supply every want, and had done so in a manner that had gratified all his vanity.  But he had refused it all, because he was bound to the girl at Floodborough.  My readers will probably say that he was not a true man unless he could do this without a regret.  When Phineas thought of it all, there were many regrets.

But there was at the same time a resolve on his part, that if any man had ever loved the girl he promised to love, he would love Mary Flood Jones.  A thousand times he had told himself that she had not the spirit of Lady Laura, or the bright wit of Violet Effingham, or the beauty of Madame Goesler.  But Mary had charms of her own that were more valuable than them all.  Was there one among the three who had trusted him as she trusted him,—­or loved him with the same satisfied devotion?  There were regrets, regrets that were heavy on his heart;—­for London, and Parliament, and the clubs, and Downing Street, had become dear to him.  He liked to think of himself as he rode in the park, and was greeted by all those whose greeting was the most worth having.  There were regrets,—­sad regrets.  But the girl whom he loved better than the parks and the clubs,—­better even than Westminster and Downing Street, should never know that they had existed.

These thoughts were running through his mind even while he was listening to Mr. Monk, as he propounded his theory of doing justice to Ireland.  This might probably be the last great debate in which Phineas would be able to take a part, and he was determined that he would do his best in it.  He did not intend to speak on this day, if, as was generally supposed, the House would be adjourned before a division could be obtained.  But he would remain on the alert and see how the thing went.  He had come to understand the forms of the place, and was as well-trained a young member of Parliament as any there.  He had been quick at learning a lesson that is not easily learned, and knew how things were going, and what were the proper moments for this question or that form of motion.  He could anticipate a count-out, understood the tone of men’s minds, and could read the gestures of the House.  It was very little likely that the debate should be over to-night.  He knew that; and as the present time was the evening of Tuesday, he resolved at once that he would speak as early as he could on the following Thursday.  What a pity it was, that with one who had learned so much, all his learning should be in vain!