With Lady Laura Kennedy, Phineas did find some sympathy;—but then she would have sympathised with him on any subject under the sun. If he would only come to her and sit with her she would fool him to the top of his bent. He had resolved that he would go to Portman Square as little as possible, and had been confirmed in that resolution by the scandal which had now spread everywhere about the town in reference to himself and herself. But still he went. He never left her till some promise of returning at some stated time had been extracted from him. He had even told her of his own scruples and of her danger,—and they had discussed together that last thunderbolt which had fallen from the Jove of The People's Banner. But she had laughed his caution to scorn. Did she not know herself and her own innocence? Was she not living in her father's house, and with her father? Should she quail beneath the stings and venom of such a reptile as Quintus Slide? "Oh, Phineas," she said, "let us be braver than that." He would much prefer to have stayed away,—but still he went to her. He was conscious of her dangerous love for him. He knew well that it was not returned. He was aware that it would be best for both that he should be apart. But yet he could not bring himself to wound her by his absence. "I do not see why you should feel it so much," she said, speaking of the trial at Durham.
"We were both on our trial,—he and I."
"Everybody knows that he bribed and that you did not."
"Yes;—and everybody despises me and pats him on the back. I am sick of the whole thing. There is no honesty in the life we lead."
"You got your seat at any rate."
"I wish with all my heart that I had never seen the dirty wretched place," said he.
"Oh, Phineas, do not say that."
"But I do say it. Of what use is the seat to me? If I could only feel that any one knew—"
"Knew what, Phineas?"
"It doesn't matter."