“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Phineas that night after Lady Baldock was gone to bed. The two men had taken off their dress coats, and had put on smoking caps — Lord Chiltern, indeed, having clothed himself in a wonderful Chinese dressing-gown, and they were sitting round the fire in the smoking-room; but though they were thus employed and thus dressed the two younger ladies were still with them.

“How could I tell you everything in two minutes?” said Lady Chiltern.

“I’d have given a guinea to have heard her,” said Lord Chiltern, getting up and rubbing his hands as he walked about the room. “Can’t you fancy all that she’d say, and then her horror when she’d remember that Phineas was a Papist himself?”

“But what made Miss Boreham turn nun¹?”

“I fancy she found the penances² lighter³ than they were at home,” said the lord. “They couldn’t well be heavier.”

“Dear old aunt!”

“Does she never go to see Sister Veronica?” asked Miss Palliser.

“She has been once,” said Lady Chiltern.

“And fumigated⁴ herself first so as to escape infection,” said the husband. “You should hear Gerard Maule imitate her when she talks about the filthy⁵ priest.”

“And who is Gerard Maule?” Then Lady Chiltern looked at her friend, and Phineas was almost sure that Gerard Maule was the man who was dying for Adelaide Palliser.

“He’s a great ally of mine,” said Lady Chiltern.

“He’s a young fellow who thinks he can ride to hounds,” said Lord Chiltern, “and who very often does succeed in riding over them.”

“That’s not fair, Lord Chiltern,” said Miss Palliser.

“Just my idea of it,” replied the Master. “I don’t think it’s at all fair. Because a man has plenty of horses, and nothing else to do, and rides twelve stone, and doesn’t care how he’s sworn at, he’s always to be over the

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