"The very last," said Phineas, feeling that the subject was one upon which it was not easy for him to speak.
"I cannot conceive to whom he can have alluded," said Violet. Then Phineas began to understand that Violet had not heard the whole story; but the difficulty of speaking was still very great.
"It has been the result of ungovernable temper," he said.
"But a man does not usually strive to dishonour himself because he is in a rage. And this man is incapable of rage. He must be cursed with one of those dark gloomy minds in which love always leads to jealousy. She will never return to him."
"One cannot say. In many respects it would be better that she should," said Phineas.
"She will never return to him," repeated Violet,—"never. Would you advise her to do so?"
"How can I say? If one were called upon for advice, one would think so much before one spoke."
"I would not,—not for a minute. What! to be accused of that! How are a man and woman to live together after there have been such words between them? Poor Laura! What a terrible end to all her high hopes! Do you not grieve for her?"
They were now at some distance from the house, and Phineas could not but feel that chance had been very good to him in giving him his opportunity. She was leaning on his arm, and they were alone, and she was speaking to him with all the familiarity of old friendship. "I wonder whether I may change the subject," said he, "and ask you a word about yourself?"
"What word?" she said sharply.