Phineas had certainly no desire to make love by an ambassador — at second hand. He had given no commission to Lady Laura, and was, as the reader is aware, quite ignorant of what was being done and said on his behalf. He had asked no more from Lady Laura than an opportunity of speaking for himself, and that he had asked almost with a conviction that by so asking he would turn his friend into an enemy. He had read but little of the workings of Lady Laura’s heart towards himself, and had no idea of the assistance she was anxious to give him. She had never told him that she was willing to sacrifice her brother on his behalf, and, of course, had not told him that she was willing also to sacrifice herself. Nor, when she wrote to him one June morning and told him that Violet would be found in Portman Square, alone, that afternoon — naming an hour, and explaining that Miss Effingham would be there to meet herself and her father, but that at such an hour she would be certainly alone — did he even then know how much she was prepared to do for him. The short note was signed “L.,” and then there came a long postscript¹. “Ask for me,” she said in a postscript. “I shall be there later, and I have told them to bid you wait. I can give you no hope of success, but if you choose to try — you can do so. If you do not come, I shall know that you have changed your mind. I shall not think the worse of you, and your secret will be safe with me. I do that which you have asked me to do — simply because you have asked it. Burn this at once — because I ask it.” Phineas destroyed the note, tearing it into atoms, the moment that he had read it and re-read it. Of course he would go to Portman Square at the hour named. Of course he would take his chance. He was not buoyed² up by much of hope — but even though there were no hope, he would take his chance.

When Lord Brentford had first told Phineas of his promotion³, he had also asked the new Lord of the Treasury⁴ to make a certain communication on his behalf to his son. This Phineas had found himself obliged to promise to do — and he had done it. The letter had been difficult enough to write — but he had written it. After having made the promise, he had found himself bound to keep it.

“Dear Lord Chiltern,” he had commenced, I will not think that there was anything in our late encounter to prevent my so addressing you. I now write at the instance of your father, who has heard nothing of our little affair.” Then he explained at length Lord Brentford’s wishes as he understood them. “Pray come home,” he said, finishing his letter. “Touching V. E., I feel that I am bound to tell you that I still mean to try my fortune, but that I have no ground for hoping that my fortune will be good. Since the day on the sands, I have never met her but in society. I know you will be glad to hear that my wound was nothing; and I think you will be glad to hear that I have got my foot on to the ladder of promotion. — Yours always,

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