"Very well; you say so. But that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. And I have told you that I do love some one else. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. "Do be kind to me; and pray,--pray,--do believe me." Lady Carbury then allowed herself to be kissed, and allowed her daughter to leave the room.
[Illustration: Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed.]

"Very well; but that is what I think. He is so much above me, that, though I do love him, I cannot think of him in that way. I have no secret from you now. Good night, mamma," she said, coming up to her mother and kissing her. "Do be kind to me; and pray, do believe me."
Lady Carbury allowed herself to be kissed, and her daughter left the room.


There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul Montague before they parted. As they walked together to Roger's hotel he said not a word as to Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul had declared his visit in Lady Carbury's absence to have been accidental,--and therefore there was nothing more to be said. Montague then asked as to the cause of Carbury's journey to London. "I do not wish it to be talked of," said Roger after a pause,--"and of course I could not speak of it before Hetta. A girl has gone away from our neighbourhood. You remember old Ruggles?"
"You do not mean that Ruby has levanted? She was to have married John Crumb."

There was a great deal said that night between Roger Carbury and Paul Montague; but not a word about Paul's presence in Welbeck Street. Paul asked about the cause of Carbury's journey to London.
"I could not speak of it before Hetta," said Roger. "You remember Ruby Ruggles? She was to have married John Crumb


"Just so,--but she has gone off, leaving John Crumb in an unhappy frame of mind. John Crumb is an honest man and almost too good for her."
"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with any one?"
"No;--she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think down there that Felix has,--well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him."
"That would be very bad."

, but she has gone off, leaving him most unhappy. John Crumb is almost too good for her."
"Ruby is very pretty. Has she gone with anyone?"
"No; she went alone. But the horror of it is this. They think that Felix has - well, made love to her, and that she has been taken to London by him."
"That would be very bad."


"He certainly has known her. Though he lied, as he always lies, when I first spoke to him, I brought him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. Of course we know what such friendship means. But I do not think that she came to London at his instance. Of course he would lie about that. He would lie about anything. If his horse cost him a hundred pounds, he would tell one man that he gave fifty, and another two hundred. But he has not lived long enough yet to be able to lie and tell the truth with the same eye. When he is as old as I am he'll be perfect."
"He knows nothing about her coming to town?"

"He certainly knew her. Though he lied when I first spoke to him, I got him to admit that he and she had been friends down in Suffolk. And we know what that means. But I do not think that she came to London at his request."
"He knows nothing about her coming to town?"


"He did not when I first asked him. I am not sure, but I fancy that I was too quick after her. She started last Saturday morning. I followed on the Sunday, and made him out at his club. I think that he knew nothing then of her being in town. He is very clever if he did. Since that he has avoided me. I caught him once but only for half a minute, and then he swore that he had not seen her."
"You still believed him?"

"No. I found him the day after she left, and I think that he knew nothing about it then. Since that he has avoided me.


"No;--he did it very well, but I knew that he was prepared for me. I cannot say how it may have been. To make matters worse old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter. He was frightened at first; but that has gone off, and he is now reconciled to the loss of the girl and the saving of his money."
After that Paul told all his own story,--the double story, both in regard to Melmotte and to Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger could only tell him to follow explicitly the advice of his Liverpool friend. "I never believed in the thing, you know."
"Nor did I. But what could I do?"

To make matters worse, old Ruggles has now quarrelled with Crumb, and is no longer anxious to get back his granddaughter."
After that Paul told all his own story - the double story, about both Melmotte and Mrs. Hurtle. As regarded the Railway, Roger could only tell him to follow the advice of his Liverpool friend. "I never believed in it, you know.


"I'm not going to blame you. Indeed, knowing you as I do, feeling sure that you intend to be honest, I would not for a moment insist on my own opinion, if it did not seem that Mr. Ramsbottom thinks as I do. In such a matter, when a man does not see his own way clearly, it behoves him to be able to show that he has followed the advice of some man whom the world esteems and recognises. You have to bind your character to another man's character; and that other man's character, if it be good, will carry you through. From what I hear Mr. Ramsbottom's character is sufficiently good;--but then you must do exactly what he tells you."

From what I hear Mr. Ramsbottom's character is good; do exactly what he tells you."


But the Railway business, though it comprised all that Montague had in the world, was not the heaviest of his troubles. What was he to do about Mrs. Hurtle? He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London, and that he had been with her three or four times. There was this difficulty in the matter, too,--that it was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs. Hurtle without in some sort alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury. Roger knew of both loves;--had been very urgent with his friend to abandon the widow, and at any rate equally urgent with him to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. And yet, in discussing the question of Mrs. Hurtle, he was to do so as though there were no such person existing as Henrietta Carbury. The discussion did take place exactly as though there were no such person as Henrietta Carbury. Paul told it all,--the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.
"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas,--and to Oregon," said Roger.

But the Railway business was not the heaviest of Paul's troubles. He had now, for the first time, to tell his friend that Mrs. Hurtle had come to London, and that he had been with her three or four times. It was very hard to speak of his engagement with Mrs. Hurtle without alluding to his love for Henrietta Carbury.
Roger knew of both loves; he had urged his friend to abandon the widow, and equally urged him to give up the other passion. Were he to marry the widow, all danger on the other side would be at an end. And yet he had to discuss Mrs. Hurtle as though there were no such person as Henrietta. Paul told it all - the rumoured duel, the rumoured murder, and the rumour of the existing husband.
"It may be necessary that you should go out to Kansas," said Roger.


"But even if the rumours be untrue I will not marry her," said Paul. Roger shrugged his shoulders. He was doubtless thinking of Hetta Carbury, but he said nothing. "And what would she do, remaining here?" continued Paul. Roger admitted that it would be awkward. "I am determined that under no circumstances will I marry her. I know I have been a fool. I know I have been wrong. But of course, if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it if I can."

"But even if the rumours are untrue I will not marry her," said Paul. Roger shrugged, but said nothing. "I know I have been a fool," continued Paul. "I know I have been wrong. But if there be a fair cause for my broken word, I will use it."


"You will get out of it, honestly if you can; but you will get out of it honestly or--any other way."
"Did you not advise me to get out of it, Roger;--before we knew as much as we do now?"
"I did,--and I do. If you make a bargain with the Devil, it may be dishonest to cheat him,--and yet I would have you cheat him if you could. As to this woman, I do believe she has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her;--not though her claws were strong enough to tear me utterly in pieces. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll go and see her if you like it."

"Get out of it honestly if you can; but get out of it. I advised you to do this before. I believe this woman has deceived you. If I were you, nothing should induce me to marry her. I'll go and see her if you like."


But Paul would not submit to this. He felt that he was bound himself to incur the risk of those claws, and that no substitute could take his place. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved between them that on the next morning Paul should go to Islington, should tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories which he had heard, and should end by declaring his resolution that under no circumstances would he marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should ever be allowed to get to the end of such a story,--how almost certain it was that the breeding of the wild cat would show itself before that time should come. But, still, that was the course to be pursued as far as circumstances would admit; and Paul was at any rate to declare, claws or no claws, husband or no husband,--whether the duel or the murder was admitted or denied,--that he would never make Mrs. Hurtle his wife. "I wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.
"So do I," said Paul, as he took his leave.

But Paul would not allow this. They sat long into the night, and it was at last resolved that Paul should go next day to Islington, tell Mrs. Hurtle all the stories he had heard, and declare his resolution not to marry her. They both felt how improbable it was that he should get to the end of such a story before the wild cat would show its claws. But Paul declared that, claws or no claws, he would never make Mrs. Hurtle his wife.
"I wish it were over, old fellow," said Roger.
"So do I," said Paul.


He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and he awoke in the same condition. He had slept well, but as he shook from him his happy dream, the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. But the man who is to be hung has no choice. He cannot, when he wakes, declare that he has changed his mind, and postpone the hour. It was quite open to Paul Montague to give himself such instant relief. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be well that he should think of it further, and put off his execution till Monday? Monday was so far distant that he felt that he could go to Islington quite comfortably on Monday. Was there not some hitherto forgotten point which it would be well that he should discuss with his friend Roger before he saw the lady?

He went to bed like a man condemned to die on the next morning, and when he awoke the wretched reality at once overwhelmed him. He put his hand up to his brow, and almost made himself believe that his head was aching. This was Saturday. Would it not be well to put off his execution till Monday? Were there not still matters to consider?


Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth to execution, seeing that the matter was in his own hands?

Should he not rush down to Liverpool, and ask a few more questions of Mr. Ramsbottom? Why should he go forth to execution today?


At last he jumped out of bed and into his tub, and dressed himself as quickly as he could. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate his breakfast about nine, and then asked himself whether he might not be too early were he to go at once to Islington. But he remembered that she was always early. In every respect she was an energetic woman, using her time for some purpose, either good or bad, not sleeping it away in bed. If one has to be hung on a given day, would it not be well to be hung as soon after waking as possible? I can fancy that the hangman would hardly come early enough. And if one had to be hung in a given week, would not one wish to be hung on the first day of the week, even at the risk of breaking one's last Sabbath day in this world? Whatever be the misery to be endured, get it over. The horror of every agony is in its anticipation.

At last he jumped out of bed and into his bath-tub, and dressed quickly. He worked himself up into a fit of fortitude, and resolved that the thing should be done before the fit was over. He ate his breakfast, and then, although it was still early,


Paul had realised something of this when he threw himself into a Hansom cab, and ordered the man to drive him to Islington.


How quick that cab went! Nothing ever goes so quick as a Hansom cab when a man starts for a dinner-party a little too early;--nothing so slow when he starts too late. Of all cabs this, surely, was the quickest. Paul was lodging in Suffolk Street, close to Pall Mall,--whence the way to Islington, across Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road, across numerous squares north-east of the Museum, seems to be long. The end of Goswell Road is the outside of the world in that direction, and Islington is beyond the end of Goswell Road. And yet that Hansom cab was there before Paul Montague had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview. He had given the street and the number of the street. It was not till after he had started that it occurred to him that it might be well that he should get out at the end of the street, and walk to the house,--so that he might, as it were, fetch his breath before the interview was commenced. But the cabman dashed up to the door in a manner purposely devised to make every inmate of the house aware that a cab had just arrived before it. There was a little garden before the house.

How quick that cab went! Before Paul had been able to arrange the words with which he would begin the interview, the cab was in Islington and dashed noisily up to the house.


We all know the garden;--twenty-four feet long, by twelve broad;--and an iron-grated door, with the landlady's name on a brass plate. Paul, when he had paid the cabman,--giving the man half-a-crown, and asking for no change in his agony,--pushed in the iron gate and walked very quickly up to the door, rang rather furiously, and before the door was well opened asked for Mrs. Hurtle.

Paul paid the cabman, pushed open the iron gate and walked very quickly past the little garden up to the door. He rang rather furiously, and asked for Mrs. Hurtle.


"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door. "Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till to-night." Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles. "Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?" Ruby Ruggles had often seen Paul down in Suffolk, and recognised him as quickly as he did her. It occurred to her at once that he had come in search of herself. She knew that Roger Carbury was up in town looking for her. So much she had of course learned from Sir Felix,--for at this time she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. Montague, she knew, was Roger Carbury's intimate friend, and now she felt that she was caught.

"Mrs. Hurtle is out for the day," said the girl who opened the door. "Leastways, she went out yesterday and won't be back till tonight."
Providence had sent him a reprieve! But he almost forgot the reprieve, as he looked at the girl and saw that she was Ruby Ruggles.
"Oh laws, Mr. Montague, is that you?" Ruby recognised Paul as quickly as he did her; and thought at once that he had come in search of her. She knew that Roger Carbury was in town looking for her. She had learned this from Sir Felix - for she had seen the baronet more than once since her arrival. Now she felt that she was caught.


In her terror she did not at first remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
"Yes, it is I. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home."
"I'm all right, Mr. Montague;--I am. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me."
"Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?"

In her terror she did not remember that the visitor had asked for Mrs. Hurtle.
"Yes. I was sorry to hear, Miss Ruggles, that you had left your home."
"I'm all right, Mr. Montague. Mrs. Pipkin is my aunt, or, leastways, my mother's brother's widow, though grandfather never would speak to her. She's quite respectable, and has five children, and lets lodgings. There's a lady here now, and has gone away with her just for one night down to Southend. They'll be back this evening, and I've the children to mind, with the servant girl. I'm quite respectable here, Mr. Montague, and nobody need be a bit afraid about me."
"Mrs. Hurtle has gone down to Southend?"


"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, as Mrs. Hurtle is such a stranger. And Mrs. Hurtle said as she didn't mind paying for two, and so they've gone, and the baby with them. Mrs. Pipkin said as the baby shouldn't be no trouble. And Mrs. Hurtle,--she's most as fond of the baby as aunt. Do you know Mrs. Hurtle, sir?"
"Yes; she's a friend of mine."
"Oh; I didn't know. I did know as there was some friend as was expected and as didn't come. Be I to say, sir, as you was here?"

"Yes, Mr. Montague; she wasn't quite well, and wanted a breath of air, she said. And aunt didn't like she should go alone, so they've gone, and the baby with them. Do you know Mrs. Hurtle, sir?"
"Yes; she's a friend of mine."
"Oh, I didn't know. Should I say, sir, as you was here?"


Paul thought it might be as well to shift the subject and to ask Ruby a few questions about herself while he made up his mind what message he would leave for Mrs. Hurtle. "I'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles."
"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all about it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather is that provoking as a young woman can't live with him, nor yet I won't try never again. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him,--that careful that no one won't do it again;--did his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday, 'cause he was that mean he wouldn't have anybody about the place only me and the girl who had to milk the cows. There wasn't nobody to do anything, only me. And then he went to drag me about by the hairs of my head. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre, Mr. Montague;--nor yet won't the Squire."

"I'm afraid they are very unhappy about you down at Bungay, Miss Ruggles," said Paul.
"Then they've got to be unhappy; that's all. Grandfather is that provoking a young woman can't live with him. He lugged me all about the room by my hair, Mr. Montague. How is a young woman to put up with that? And I did everything for him, his linen, and his victuals, and even cleaned his boots of a Sunday. You won't see me again at Sheep's Acre."


"But I thought there was somebody else was to give you a home."
"John Crumb! Oh, yes, there's John Crumb. There's plenty of people to give me a home, Mr. Montague."
"You were to have been married to John Crumb, I thought."
"Ladies is to change their minds if they like it, Mr. Montague. I'm sure you've heard that before. Grandfather made me say I'd have him,--but I never cared that for him."
"I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in London."

"But I thought there was somebody else to give you a home."
"Oh, yes, there's John Crumb."
"You were to have married him, I thought."
"Ladies is to change their minds if they like, Mr. Montague. Grandfather made me say I'd have him, but I never cared that for him."
"I'm afraid, Miss Ruggles, you won't find a better man up here in London."


"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague; I can tell you that. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch." That told the whole story. Paul when he heard the little boast was quite sure that Roger's fear about Felix was well founded. And as for John Crumb's fitness to touch Sir Felix, Paul felt that the Bungay mealman might have an opinion of his own on that matter. "But there's Betsy a crying up-stairs, and I promised not to leave them children for one minute."
"I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles."

"I didn't come here to look for a man, Mr. Montague. They has to look for me, if they want me. But I am looked after; and that by one as John Crumb ain't fit to touch."
That told the whole story. Paul was quite sure that Roger's fear about Felix was well founded.
"But there's Betsy a crying upstairs," said Ruby.
"I will tell the Squire that I saw you, Miss Ruggles."


"What does the Squire want o' me? I ain't nothing to the Squire,--except that I respects him. You can tell if you please, Mr. Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling."

"You can tell if you please, Mr. Montague, of course. I'm a coming, my darling."


Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note for her in pencil. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend to it. He felt as he wrote this that he might very safely have himself made an appointment for the morrow; but he cheated himself into half believing that the suggestion he now made was the more gracious and civil. At any rate it would certainly give him another day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was Sunday there would be no delivery by post. When the note was finished he left it on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going. "Mr. Montague," she said in a confidential whisper, as she tripped down the stairs, "I don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know."
"Mr. Carbury is up in town looking after you."

Paul made his way into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room and wrote a note for her. He had come, he said, immediately on his return from Liverpool, and was sorry to find that she was away for the day. When should he call again? If she would make an appointment he would attend to it.
This would give him another day. Mrs. Hurtle would not return till late in the evening, and as the following day was Sunday there would be no postal delivery. He left the note on the table, and called to Ruby to tell her that he was going.
"Mr. Montague," she said in a confidential whisper, tripping down the stairs, "I don't see why you need be saying anything about me, you know."


"What 'm I to Mr. Carbury?"
"Your grandfather is very anxious about you."
"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. There! Grandfather doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me? I don't bother myself about him."
"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy."
"I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague."

"Your grandfather is very anxious about you."
"Not a bit of it, Mr. Montague. Grandfather knows very well where I am. He doesn't want me back, and I ain't a going. Why should the Squire bother himself about me?"
"He's afraid, Miss Ruggles, that you are trusting yourself to a young man who is not trustworthy."
"I can mind myself very well, Mr. Montague."


"Tell me this. Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in town?" Ruby, whose blushes came very easily, now flushed up to her forehead. "You may be sure that he means no good to you. What can come of an intimacy between you and such a one as he?"
"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as you. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged."
"But I must tell Mr. Carbury."
"Then I ain't obliged to you one bit," said Ruby, shutting the door.

"Have you seen Sir Felix Carbury since you've been in town?" Ruby flushed up to her forehead. "You may be sure that he means you no good."
"I don't see why I shouldn't have my friend, Mr. Montague, as well as you. Howsomever, if you'll not tell, I'll be ever so much obliged."
"But I must tell Mr. Carbury."
"Then I ain't obliged to you one bit," said Ruby, shutting the door.


Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of Ruby's reproach to him. What business had he to take upon himself to be a Mentor to any one in regard to an affair of love;--he, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had for the first time declared his love to Hetta Carbury?
In regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, as he thought, for two days;--but it did not make him happy or even comfortable. As he walked back to his lodgings he knew it would have been better for him to have had the interview over. But, at any rate, he could now think of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. Had he heard that declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to have forgotten Mrs. Hurtle.

Paul as he walked away could not help thinking of the justice of Ruby's reproach. What business had he to advise her in love - he, who had engaged himself to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and who the evening before had declared his love to Hetta Carbury?
In regard to Mrs. Hurtle he had got a reprieve, he thought, for two days; but it did not make him comfortable. He thought of Hetta Carbury, and the words he had spoken to her. If he had heard the declaration which she had made to her mother, he would have been able for the hour to forget Mrs. Hurtle.


The afternoon on which Lady Carbury arrived at her cousin's house had been very stormy. Roger Carbury had been severe, and Lady Carbury had suffered under his severity,--or had at least so well pretended to suffer as to leave on Roger's mind a strong impression that he had been cruel to her. She had then talked of going back at once to London, and when consenting to remain, had remained with a very bad feminine headache. She had altogether carried her point, but had done so in a storm. The next morning was very calm. That question of meeting the Melmottes had been settled, and there was no need for speaking of them again. Roger went out by himself about the farm, immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could have the waggonnette when they pleased. "I'm afraid you'll find it tiresome driving about our lanes," he said. Lady Carbury assured him that she was never dull when left alone with books. Just as he was starting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought to Henrietta.

After that day of storm, the next morning was very calm. Roger went out about the farm immediately after breakfast, having told the ladies that they could have the waggonnette when they pleased. Lady Carbury assured him that she was never dull when left alone with books.
Before starting he went into the garden and plucked a rose which he brought to Henrietta.


He only smiled as he gave it her, and then went his way. He had resolved that he would say nothing to her of his suit till Monday. If he could prevail with her then he would ask her to remain with him when her mother and brother would be going out to dine at Caversham. She looked up into his face as she took the rose and thanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth, and honour, and honesty of his character, and could have loved him so dearly as her cousin if he would have contented himself with such cousinly love! She was beginning, within her heart, to take his side against her mother and brother, and to feel that he was the safest guide that she could have. But how could she be guided by a lover whom she did not love?
"I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here," said Lady Carbury.
"Why so, mamma?"

He only smiled as he gave it her, and then went on his way. He had resolved to say nothing to her of his suit till Monday. If he could prevail with her then, he would ask her to remain with him when her mother and brother went to dine at Caversham.
She looked up into his face as she took the rose and thanked him in a whisper. She fully appreciated the truth, honour, and honesty of his character, and could have loved him so dearly as her cousin if he would have contented himself with such cousinly love! She was beginning, within her heart, to take his side against her mother and brother, and to feel that he was the safest guide that she could have. But how could she be guided by a lover whom she did not love?
"I am afraid, my dear, we shall have a bad time of it here," said Lady Carbury.
"Why so, mamma?"


"It will be so dull. Your cousin is the best friend in all the world, and would make as good a husband as could be picked out of all the gentlemen of England; but in his present mood with me he is not a comfortable host. What nonsense he did talk about the Melmottes!"
"I don't suppose, mamma, that Mr. and Mrs. Melmotte can be nice people."
"Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta, don't let us have any of that nonsense from you. When it comes from the superhuman virtue of poor dear Roger it has to be borne, but I beg that you will not copy him."
"Mamma, I think that is unkind."
"And I shall think it very unkind if you take upon yourself to abuse people who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A word from you might undo all that we are doing."

"It will be so dull. Your cousin is the best friend in all the world, but in his present mood he is not a comfortable host. What nonsense he did talk about the Melmottes!"
"I don't suppose, mamma, that Mr. and Mrs. Melmotte can be nice people."
"Why shouldn't they be as nice as anybody else? Pray, Henrietta, don't let us have any of that nonsense from you. I beg that you will not copy Roger with his superhuman virtue."
"Mamma, I think that is unkind."
"And I shall think it very unkind if you abuse people who are able and willing to set poor Felix on his legs. A word from you might undo all that we are doing."


"What word?"
"What word? Any word! If you have any influence with your brother you should use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl is willing enough. She did refer him to her father."
"Then why does he not go to Mr. Melmotte?"
"I suppose he is delicate about it on the score of money. If Roger could only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place, and that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I don't think there would be any difficulty even with old Melmotte."
"How could he do that, mamma?"

"What word?"
"Any word! If you have any influence with your brother you should use it in inducing him to hurry this on. I am sure the girl is willing enough. She did refer him to Mr. Melmotte."
"Then why does he not go?"
"I suppose he is delicate about the money side of it. If Roger could only let it be understood that Felix is the heir to this place, and that some day he will be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury, I don't think there would be any difficulty with old Melmotte."


"If your cousin were to die as he is now, it would be so. Your brother would be his heir."
"You should not think of such a thing, mamma."
"Why do you dare to tell me what I am to think? Am I not to think of my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than any one? And what I say, is so. If Roger were to die to-morrow he would be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury."
"But, mamma, he will live and have a family. Why should he not?"

"You should not think of such a thing, mamma."
"Am I not to think of my own son? Is he not to be dearer to me than anyone? And it is so. If Roger were to die tomorrow he would be Sir Felix Carbury of Carbury."
"But, mamma, Roger will live and have a family. Why should he not?"


"You say he is so old that you will not look at him."
"I never said so. When we were joking, I said he was old. You know I did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great deal older get married every day."

"You say he is so old that you will not look at him."
"I never said so. I did not mean that he was too old to get married. Men a great deal older get married every day."


"If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is a man of that kind,--so stiff and stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will change him. He will go on boodying over it, till he will become an old misanthrope. If you would take him I would be quite contented. You are my child as well as Felix. But if you mean to be obstinate I do wish that the Melmottes should be made to understand that the property and title and name of the place will all go together. It will be so, and why should not Felix have the advantage?"
"Who is to say it?"
"Ah;--that's where it is. Roger is so violent and prejudiced that one cannot get him to speak rationally."

"If you don't accept him he will never marry. He is so stubborn and old-fashioned that nothing will change him. If you would take him I would be quite contented. But if you mean to be obstinate I wish that the Melmottes should understand that the property and title will go together. Why should not Felix have that advantage?"
"Who is to say it?"
"Ah; that's the thing. Roger is so prejudiced that one cannot get him to speak rationally."


"Oh, mamma;--you wouldn't suggest it to him;--that this place is to go to--Felix, when he--is dead!"
"It would not kill him a day sooner."
"You would not dare to do it, mamma."

"Oh, mamma; you wouldn't suggest it to him! You would not dare, mamma."


"I would dare to do anything for my children. But you need not look like that, Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of the kind. He is not quick enough to understand of what infinite service he might be to us without in any way hurting himself." Henrietta would fain have answered that their cousin was quick enough for anything, but was by far too honest to take part in such a scheme as that proposed. She refrained, however, and was silent. There was no sympathy on the matter between her and her mother. She was beginning to understand the tortuous mazes of manoeuvres in which her mother's mind had learned to work, and to dislike and almost to despise them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes.

"I would dare anything for my children. But you need not look like that, Henrietta. I am not going to say anything to him of the kind. He is not quick enough to understand how much it might help us without in any way hurting himself."
Henrietta was silent; but she thought that her cousin was too honest to take part in any such scheme. She was beginning to understand the tortuous manuvres in which her mother's mind had learned to work, and to dislike them. But she felt it to be her duty to abstain from rebukes.


In the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into Beccles that she might telegraph to her son. "You are to dine at Caversham on Monday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there." Lady Carbury had many doubts as to the wording of this message. The female in the office might too probably understand who was the "She," who was spoken of as being at Caversham, and might understand also the project, and speak of it publicly. But then it was essential that Felix should know how great and certain was the opportunity afforded to him. He had promised to come on Saturday and return on Monday,--and, unless warned, would too probably stick to his plan and throw over the Longestaffes and their dinner-party. Again if he were told to come simply for the Monday, he would throw over the chance of wooing her on the Sunday. It was Lady Carbury's desire to get him down for as long a period as was possible, and nothing surely would so tend to bring him and to keep him, as a knowledge that the heiress was already in the neighbourhood.

In the afternoon Lady Carbury, alone, had herself driven into Beccles to telegraph to her son. "You are to dine at Caversham on Monday. Come on Saturday if you can. She is there."
Lady Carbury had many doubts as to the wording of this message. The female in the office might understand who the "She" was, and might also understand the project, and speak of it publicly. But it was essential that Felix should know how great was the opportunity given him. He had promised to come on Saturday and return on Monday - and, unless warned, would probably stick to his plan and throw over the Longestaffes' dinner-party. But if he were told to come simply for the Monday, he would throw over the chance of wooing her on the Sunday. Lady Carbury desired to get him down for as long as possible.


Then she returned, and shut herself up in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two at a paper which she was writing for the "Breakfast Table." Nobody should ever accuse her justly of idleness. And afterwards, as she walked by herself round and round the garden, she revolved in her mind the scheme of a new book. Whatever might happen she would persevere. If the Carburys were unfortunate their misfortunes should come from no fault of hers. Henrietta passed the whole day alone. She did not see her cousin from breakfast till he appeared in the drawing-room before dinner. But she was thinking of him during every minute of the day,--how good he was, how honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at any rate kindness at her hand! Her mother had spoken of him as of one who might be regarded as all but dead and buried, simply because of his love for her. Could it be true that his constancy was such that he would never marry unless she would take his hand?

On her return, she shut herself up in her bedroom, and worked for an hour or two on an article for the Breakfast Table. Nobody should ever accuse her of idleness. Afterwards, as she walked by herself round the garden, she revolved in her mind the scheme of a new book. Whatever might happen she would persevere.
Henrietta passed the whole day alone. She did not see her cousin from breakfast till dinner. But she was thinking of him every minute - how good he was, how honest, how thoroughly entitled to demand at least kindness from her! Could it be true that he would never marry unless she would take his hand?


She came to think of him with more tenderness than she had ever felt before, but, yet, she would not tell herself she loved him. It might, perhaps, be her duty to give herself to him without loving him,--because he was so good; but she was sure that she did not love him.
In the evening the bishop came, and his wife, Mrs. Yeld, and the Hepworths of Eardly, and Father John Barham, the Beccles priest. The party consisted of eight, which is, perhaps, the best number for a mixed gathering of men and women at a dinner-table,--especially if there be no mistress whose prerogative and duty it is to sit opposite to the master. In this case Mr. Hepworth faced the giver of the feast, the bishop and the priest were opposite to each other, and the ladies graced the four corners. Roger, though he spoke of such things to no one, turned them over much in his mind, believing it to be the duty of a host to administer in all things to the comfort of his guests. In the drawing-room he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him first to the bishop and his wife, and then to his cousins. Henrietta watched him through the whole evening, and told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house. She had seen it all before, no doubt; but she had never watched him as she now watched him since her mother had told her that he would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife and the mother of his children.

She thought of him with more tenderness than she had ever felt before, yet she would not tell herself she loved him. It might, perhaps, be her duty to give herself to him without loving him, because he was so good; but she was sure that she did not love him.
In the evening the bishop came, and Mrs. Yeld his wife, and the Hepworths, and Father John Barham, the priest. Mr. Hepworth sat facing Roger at the table, the bishop and the priest were opposite each other, and the ladies graced the four corners. Roger turned such matters over much in his mind. In the drawing-room he had been especially courteous to the young priest, introducing him to the others. Henrietta, watching him, told herself that he was a very mirror of courtesy in his own house. She had never watched him as she now watched him, since her mother had said that he would die wifeless and childless because she would not be his wife.


The bishop was a man sixty years of age, very healthy and handsome, with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, and something of a double chin. He was all but six feet high, with a broad chest, large hands, and legs which seemed to have been made for clerical breeches and clerical stockings. He was a man of fortune outside his bishopric; and, as he never went up to London, and had no children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a nobleman in the country. He did live as a nobleman, and was very popular. Among the poor around him he was idolized, and by such clergy of his diocese as were not enthusiastic in their theology either on the one side or on the other, he was regarded as a model bishop. By the very high and the very low,--by those rather who regarded ritualism as being either heavenly or devilish,--he was looked upon as a time-server, because he would not put to sea in either of those boats. He was an unselfish man, who loved his neighbour as himself, and forgave all trespasses, and thanked God for his daily bread from his heart, and prayed heartily to be delivered from temptation. But I doubt whether he was competent to teach a creed,--or even to hold one, if it be necessary that a man should understand and define his creed before he can hold it. Whether he was free from, or whether he was scared by, any inward misgivings, who shall say? If there were such he never whispered a word of them even to the wife of his bosom.

The bishop was a tall man of sixty, healthy and handsome, with hair just becoming grey, clear eyes, a kindly mouth, and a double chin. He was a man of fortune; and, as he had no children on whom to spend his money, he was able to live as a nobleman in the country - where he was very popular. Among the poor he was idolized, and by such clergy as were not enthusiastic about their theology, he was regarded as a model bishop. By those of the very high and the very low church, he was looked upon as a time-server.
An unselfish man, he loved his neighbour and forgave all trespasses, thanked God for his daily bread from his heart, and prayed sincerely to be delivered from temptation. But I doubt whether he was competent to teach a creed which he could neither understand nor define. Whether he had any inward misgivings, who shall say?


From the tone of his voice and the look of his eye, you would say that he was unscathed by that agony which doubt on such a matter would surely bring to a man so placed. And yet it was observed of him that he never spoke of his faith, or entered into arguments with men as to the reasons on which he had based it. He was diligent in preaching,--moral sermons that were short, pithy, and useful. He was never weary in furthering the welfare of his clergymen. His house was open to them and to their wives. The edifice of every church in his diocese was a care to him. He laboured at schools, and was zealous in improving the social comforts of the poor; but he was never known to declare to man or woman that the human soul must live or die for ever according to its faith. Perhaps there was no bishop in England more loved or more useful in his diocese than the Bishop of Elmham.

He never spoke of his faith.
He was diligent in preaching - moral sermons that were short, pithy, and useful. His house was open to his fellow-clergymen; he laboured at schools, and was zealous in improving the comforts of the poor; but he was never known to declare that the human soul must live or die for ever according to its faith. Perhaps there was no bishop in England more loved or more useful in his diocese than the Bishop of Elmham.


A man more antagonistic to the bishop than Father John Barham, the lately appointed Roman Catholic priest at Beccles, it would be impossible to conceive;--and yet they were both eminently good men. Father John was not above five feet nine in height, but so thin, so meagre, so wasted in appearance, that, unless when he stooped, he was taken to be tall. He had thick dark brown hair, which was cut short in accordance with the usage of his Church; but which he so constantly ruffled by the action of his hands, that, though short, it seemed to be wild and uncombed. In his younger days, when long locks straggled over his forehead, he had acquired a habit, while talking energetically, of rubbing them back with his finger, which he had not since dropped. In discussions he would constantly push back his hair, and then sit with his hand fixed on the top of his head. He had a high, broad forehead, enormous blue eyes, a thin, long nose, cheeks very thin and hollow, a handsome large mouth, and a strong square chin. He was utterly without worldly means, except those which came to him from the ministry of his church, and which did not suffice to find him food and raiment; but no man ever lived more indifferent to such matters than Father John Barham. He had been the younger son of an English country gentleman of small fortune, had been sent to Oxford that he might hold a family living, and on the eve of his ordination had declared himself a Roman Catholic. His family had resented this bitterly, but had not quarrelled with him till he had drawn a sister with him. When banished from the house he had still striven to achieve the conversion of other sisters by his letters, and was now absolutely an alien from his father's heart and care.

A man more antagonistic to the bishop than Father John Barham, the new Roman Catholic priest at Beccles, it would be impossible to conceive; and yet they were both eminently good men. Father John was thin, meagre and wasted in appearance. His thick brown hair was cut short in accordance with the usage of his Church; but he so constantly ruffled it with his hands that it seemed to be wild and uncombed. In discussions he would constantly push back his hair, and then sit with his hand fixed on the top of his head. He had a high forehead, enormous blue eyes, a long nose, hollow cheeks, a handsome large mouth, and a strong square chin.
He was utterly without income, except that which came to him from the ministry of his church, and which was not enough for food and clothing; but he was indifferent to such matters. The younger son of an English country gentleman, he had been sent to Oxford to be ordained, and on the eve of his ordination had declared himself a Roman Catholic. His family had resented this bitterly, but had not quarrelled with him till he converted a sister. When banished from the house he had still striven to convert the other sisters by his letters, and was now an alien from his father's heart.


But of this he never complained. It was a part of the plan of his life that he should suffer for his faith. Had he been able to change his creed without incurring persecution, worldly degradation, and poverty, his own conversion would not have been to him comfortable and satisfactory as it was. He considered that his father, as a Protestant,--and in his mind Protestant and heathen were all the same,--had been right to quarrel with him. But he loved his father, and was endless in prayer, wearying his saints with supplications, that his father might see the truth and be as he was.

But it was part of the plan of his life that he should suffer for his faith. If he had not suffered persecution and poverty, his own conversion would not have seemed to him as satisfactory as it was.


To him it was everything that a man should believe and obey,--that he should abandon his own reason to the care of another or of others, and allow himself to be guided in all things by authority. Faith being sufficient and of itself all in all, moral conduct could be nothing to a man, except as a testimony of faith; for to him, whose belief was true enough to produce obedience, moral conduct would certainly be added. The dogmas of his Church were to Father Barham a real religion; and he would teach them in season and out of season, always ready to commit himself to the task of proving their truth, afraid of no enemy, not even fearing the hostility which his perseverance would create. He had but one duty before him,--to do his part towards bringing over the world to his faith. It might be that with the toil of his whole life he should convert but one; that he should but half convert one; that he should do no more than disturb the thoughts of one so that future conversion might be possible. But even that would be work done. He would sow the seed if it might be so; but if it were not given to him to do that, he would at any rate plough the ground.

He held that a man should believe and obey - that he should abandon his own reason, and allow himself to be guided by authority. Faith being all in all, moral conduct could be nothing to a man, except as a testimony of faith. The dogmas of his Church were to Father Barham a real religion; and he had but one duty before him: to bring over the world to his faith. It might be that with the toil of his whole life he should convert but one person, or only half convert one; or do no more than disturb the thoughts of one so that future conversion might be possible. But even that would be work done. If he could not sow the seed, he would at any rate plough the ground.


He had come to Beccles lately, and Roger Carbury had found out that he was a gentleman by birth and education. Roger had found out also that he was very poor, and had consequently taken him by the hand. The young priest had not hesitated to accept his neighbour's hospitality, having on one occasion laughingly protested that he should be delighted to dine at Carbury, as he was much in want of a dinner. He had accepted presents from the garden and the poultry yard, declaring that he was too poor to refuse anything. The apparent frankness of the man about himself had charmed Roger, and the charm had not been seriously disturbed when Father Barham, on one winter evening in the parlour at Carbury, had tried his hand at converting his host. "I have the most thorough respect for your religion," Roger had said; "but it would not suit me." The priest had gone on with his logic; if he could not sow the seed he might plough the ground. This had been repeated two or three times, and Roger had begun to feel it to be disagreeable. But the man was in earnest, and such earnestness commanded respect. And Roger was quite sure that though he might be bored, he could not be injured by such teaching.

When he came to Beccles, Roger Carbury had learned that he was a gentleman by birth and education, and also very poor, and had consequently taken him in hand. The young priest had accepted his neighbour's hospitality, laughingly saying that he was much in want of a dinner. He had accepted presents from the garden and the poultry yard, declaring that he was too poor to refuse anything. This frankness had charmed Roger, and the charm had not been seriously disturbed when Father Barham, one winter evening at Carbury, had tried his hand at converting his host.
"I have the greatest respect for your religion," Roger had said; "but it would not suit me." The priest repeated his attempt two or three times, and Roger had begun to feel it to be disagreeable. But the man's earnestness commanded respect. And Roger was quite sure that though he might be bored, he could not be injured by such preaching.


Then it occurred to him one day that he had known the Bishop of Elmham intimately for a dozen years, and had never heard from the bishop's mouth,--except when in the pulpit,--a single word of religious teaching; whereas this man, who was a stranger to him, divided from him by the very fact of his creed, was always talking to him about his faith. Roger Carbury was not a man given to much deep thinking, but he felt that the bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two.

It occurred to him that he had known the Bishop of Elmham intimately for a dozen years, and had never heard from the bishop's mouth - except when in the pulpit - a single word of religious teaching; whereas this man, who was a stranger, was always talking to him about his faith. Roger felt that the bishop's manner was the pleasanter of the two.


Lady Carbury at dinner was all smiles and pleasantness. No one looking at her, or listening to her, could think that her heart was sore with many troubles. She sat between the bishop and her cousin, and was skilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other. She had known the bishop before, and had on one occasion spoken to him of her soul. The first tone of the good man's reply had convinced her of her error, and she never repeated it. To Mr. Alf she commonly talked of her mind; to Mr. Broune of her heart; to Mr. Booker of her body--and its wants. She was quite ready to talk of her soul on a proper occasion, but she was much too wise to thrust the subject even on a bishop. Now she was full of the charms of Carbury and its neighbourhood. "Yes, indeed," said the bishop, "I think Suffolk is a very nice county; and as we are only a mile or two from Norfolk, I'll say as much for Norfolk too. 'It's an ill bird that fouls its own nest.'"

Lady Carbury at dinner was all smiles. No one would think that her heart was sore with many troubles. She sat between the bishop and her cousin, and was skilful enough to talk to each without neglecting the other. She was too wise to talk to the bishop of her soul; so she was full of the charms of Carbury and its neighbourhood.
"Yes, indeed," said the bishop, "Suffolk is a very nice county; and Norfolk too."


"I like a county in which there is something left of county feeling," said Lady Carbury. "Staffordshire and Warwickshire, Cheshire and Lancashire have become great towns, and have lost all local distinctions."
"We still keep our name and reputation," said the bishop; "Silly Suffolk!"
"But that was never deserved."
"As much, perhaps, as other general epithets. I think we are a sleepy people. We've got no coal, you see, and no iron. We have no beautiful scenery, like the lake country,--no rivers great for fishing, like Scotland,--no hunting grounds, like the shires."
"Partridges!" pleaded Lady Carbury, with pretty energy.

"I like a county which has something left of county feeling," said Lady Carbury. "Staffordshire and Warwickshire, Cheshire and Lancashire have become great towns, and have lost local distinctions."
"We still keep our name and reputation," said the bishop; "Silly Suffolk!"
"That was never deserved."
"I think we are a sleepy people. We've got no industry and no beautiful scenery. No rivers great for fishing, like Scotland - no hunting grounds, like the shires."
"Partridges!" pleaded Lady Carbury, with pretty energy.


"Yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and the herring fishery. We shall do very well if too much is not expected of us. We can't increase and multiply as they do in the great cities."
"I like this part of England so much the best for that very reason. What is the use of a crowded population?"
"The earth has to be peopled, Lady Carbury."
"Oh, yes," said her ladyship, with some little reverence added to her voice, feeling that the bishop was probably adverting to a divine arrangement. "The world must be peopled; but for myself I like the country better than the town."

"Yes; we have partridges, fine churches, and herring. We shall do very well if too much is not expected of us."
"For myself I like the country better than the town."


"So do I," said Roger; "and I like Suffolk. The people are hearty, and radicalism is not quite so rampant as it is elsewhere. The poor people touch their hats, and the rich people think of the poor. There is something left among us of old English habits."
"That is so nice," said Lady Carbury.
"Something left of old English ignorance," said the bishop. "All the same I dare say we're improving, like the rest of the world. What beautiful flowers you have here, Mr. Carbury! At any rate, we can grow flowers in Suffolk."

"So do I," said Roger; "and I like Suffolk. The people are hearty, and not so radical as elsewhere. The poor people touch their hats, and the rich people think of the poor. There is something left among us of old English habits."
"That is so nice," said Lady Carbury.
"Something left of old English ignorance," said the bishop. "All the same I dare say we're improving, like the rest of the world. What beautiful flowers you have here, Mr. Carbury! At any rate, we can grow flowers in Suffolk."


Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest, and was in truth somewhat afraid of her neighbour. She was, perhaps, a little stauncher than her husband in Protestantism; and though she was willing to admit that Mr. Barham might not have ceased to be a gentleman when he became a Roman Catholic priest, she was not quite sure that it was expedient for her or her husband to have much to do with him. Mr. Carbury had not taken them unawares. Notice had been given that the priest was to be there, and the bishop had declared that he would be very happy to meet the priest. But Mrs. Yeld had had her misgivings. She never ventured to insist on her opinion after the bishop had expressed his; but she had an idea that right was right, and wrong wrong,--and that Roman Catholics were wrong, and therefore ought to be put down. And she thought also that if there were no priests there would be no Roman Catholics. Mr. Barham was, no doubt, a man of good family, which did make a difference.

Mrs. Yeld, the bishop's wife, was sitting next to the priest, and was in truth somewhat afraid of him. She had an idea that Roman Catholics were wrong, and ought to be suppressed. Mr. Barham was, no doubt, a gentleman of good family, which did make a difference.


Mr. Barham always made his approaches very gradually. The taciturn humility with which he commenced his operations was in exact proportion to the enthusiastic volubility of his advanced intimacy. Mrs. Yeld thought that it became her to address to him a few civil words, and he replied to her with a shame-faced modesty that almost overcame her dislike to his profession. She spoke of the poor of Beccles, being very careful to allude only to their material position. There was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the young women would have finery. Where did they get the money to buy those wonderful bonnets which appeared every Sunday? Mr. Barham was very meek, and agreed to everything that was said. No doubt he had a plan ready formed for inducing Mrs. Yeld to have mass said regularly within her husband's palace, but he did not even begin to bring it about on this occasion. It was not till he made some apparently chance allusion to the superior church-attending qualities of "our people," that Mrs. Yeld drew herself up and changed the conversation by observing that there had been a great deal of rain lately.

Mr. Barham always made his approaches very gradually. He started with quiet humility, and advanced to talkative enthusiasm. When Mrs. Yeld said a few civil words, he replied with a shame-faced modesty that she approved of. She spoke of the poor of Beccles: there was too much beer drunk, no doubt, and the young women would have finery. Where did they get the money for those wonderful Sunday bonnets?
Mr. Barham agreed meekly to everything. No doubt he already had a plan for inducing Mrs. Yeld to have mass said regularly in her husband's palace, but he did not attempt it on this occasion. It was not till he made some apparently chance allusion to the superior church-attending qualities of "our people," that Mrs. Yeld drew herself up and changed the conversation, observing that there had been a great deal of rain lately.


When the ladies were gone the bishop at once put himself in the way of conversation with the priest, and asked questions as to the morality of Beccles. It was evidently Mr. Barham's opinion that "his people" were more moral than other people, though very much poorer. "But the Irish always drink," said Mr. Hepworth.
"Not so much as the English, I think," said the priest. "And you are not to suppose that we are all Irish. Of my flock the greater proportion are English."
"It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours," said the bishop. "Of course I am aware that there are a certain number of persons of your persuasion round about us. Indeed, I could give the exact number in this diocese. But in my own immediate neighbourhood I could not put my hand upon any families which I know to be Roman Catholic."

When the ladies were gone the bishop began to talk to the priest, and asked about the morality of Beccles. It was Mr. Barham's opinion that "his people" were more moral than other people, though very much poorer.
"But the Irish always drink," said Mr. Hepworth.
"Not so much as the English, I think," said the priest. "And we are not all Irish. Most of my flock are English."
"It is astonishing how little we know of our neighbours," said the bishop. "Of course I am aware that there are a certain number of Catholics round about us. But I could not name any Catholic families."


"It is not, my lord, because there are none."
"Of course not. It is because, as I say, I do not know my neighbours."
"I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor," said Mr. Hepworth.
"They were chiefly the poor who at first put their faith in our Saviour," said the priest.
"I think the analogy is hardly correctly drawn," said the bishop, with a curious smile. "We were speaking of those who are still attached to an old creed. Our Saviour was the teacher of a new religion. That the poor in the simplicity of their hearts should be the first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is in accordance with our idea of human nature. But that an old faith should remain with the poor after it has been abandoned by the rich is not so easily intelligible."

"I think, here in Suffolk, they must be chiefly the poor," said Mr. Hepworth.
"They were chiefly the poor who first put their faith in our Saviour," said the priest.
"I think the analogy is hardly correct," said the bishop, with a curious smile. "We are speaking of those who are still attached to an old creed. Our Saviour was the teacher of a new religion. That the poor in the simplicity of their hearts should be the first to acknowledge the truth of a new religion is natural. But that the poor should keep to an old faith abandoned by the rich is not so easy to understand."


[Illustration: The bishop thinks that the priest's analogy is not correct.]
"The Roman population still believed," said Carbury, "when the patricians had learned to regard their gods as simply useful bugbears."
"The patricians had not ostensibly abandoned their religion. The people clung to it thinking that their masters and rulers clung to it also."
"The poor have ever been the salt of the earth, my lord," said the priest.


"That begs the whole question," said the bishop, turning to his host, and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been imported into the palace styes. Father Barham turned to Mr. Hepworth and went on with his argument, or rather began another. It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. There were the A----s and the B----s, and the C----s and the D----s. He knew all their names and was proud of their fidelity. To him these faithful ones were really the salt of the earth, who would some day be enabled by their fidelity to restore England to her pristine condition. The bishop had truly said that of many of his neighbours he did not know to what Church they belonged; but Father Barham, though he had not as yet been twelve months in the county, knew the name of nearly every Roman Catholic within its borders.
"Your priest is a very zealous man," said the bishop afterwards to Roger Carbury, "and I do not doubt but that he is an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet."
"I like him because he is doing the best he can according to his lights; without any reference to his own worldly welfare."
"That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect him. But I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in his company."

"That begs the question," said the bishop, turning to Roger Carbury, and beginning to talk about a breed of pigs which had lately been imported into the palace sties.
Father Barham continued his argument with Mr. Hepworth. It was a mistake to suppose that the Catholics in the county were all poor. The wealthier families of his faith - whom he named - would some day restore England to her pristine condition.
"Your priest is a very zealous man," said the bishop afterwards to Roger Carbury, "and no doubt an excellent gentleman; but he is perhaps a little indiscreet."
"I like him because he is doing the best he can, without any reference to his own worldly welfare."
"That is all very grand, and I am perfectly willing to respect him. But I do not know that I should care to talk very freely in his company."


"I am sure he would repeat nothing."
"Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going to get the best of me."
"I don't think it answers," said Mrs. Yeld to her husband as they went home. "Of course I don't want to be prejudiced; but Protestants are Protestants, and Roman Catholics are Roman Catholics."
"You may say the same of Liberals and Conservatives, but you wouldn't have them decline to meet each other."
"It isn't quite the same, my dear. After all religion is religion."
"It ought to be," said the bishop.
"Of course I don't mean to put myself up against you, my dear; but I don't know that I want to meet Mr. Barham again."
"I don't know that I do, either," said the bishop; "but if he comes in my way I hope I shall treat him civilly."

"I am sure he would repeat nothing."
"Perhaps not; but he would always be thinking that he was going to get the better of me."
Mrs. Yeld said to her husband as they went home, "Of course I don't mean to oppose you, my dear; but I don't know that I want to meet Mr. Barham again."
"I don't know that I do, either," said the bishop; "but if he comes in my way I hope I shall treat him civilly."


No election of a Member of Parliament by ballot in a borough so large as that of Westminster had as yet been achieved in England since the ballot had been established by law. Men who heretofore had known, or thought that they knew, how elections would go, who counted up promises, told off professed enemies, and weighed the doubtful ones, now confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days since the odds had been considerably in Melmotte's favour; but this had come from the reputation attached to his name, rather than from any calculation as to the politics of the voters. Then Sunday had intervened. On the Monday Melmotte's name had continued to go down in the betting from morning to evening. Early in the day his supporters had thought little of this, attributing the fall to that vacillation which is customary in such matters; but towards the latter part of the afternoon the tidings from the City had been in everybody's mouth, and Melmotte's committee-room had been almost deserted. At six o'clock there were some who suggested that his name should be withdrawn. No such suggestion, however, was made to him,--perhaps because no one dared to make it. On the Monday evening all work and strategy for the election, as regarded Melmotte and his party, died away; and the interest of the hour was turned to the dinner.

No parliamentary election in a borough as large as Westminster had yet happened in England since the secret ballot had been established. Men who previously had known how elections would go, now confessed themselves to be in the dark. Three days ago, the odds had been in Melmotte's favour; but on Monday his name had gone down in the betting. Early in the day his supporters had thought little of this, but by late afternoon the news from the City had spread. At six o'clock there were some who suggested that his name should be withdrawn. However, no one dared suggest it to him. On Monday evening the interest of the hour was turned to the dinner.


But Mr. Alf's supporters were very busy. There had been a close consultation among a few of them as to what should be done by their Committee as to these charges against the opposite candidate. In the "Pulpit" of that evening an allusion had been made to the affair, which was of course sufficiently intelligible to those who were immediately concerned in the matter, but which had given no name and mentioned no details. Mr. Alf explained that this had been put in by the sub-editor, and that it only afforded such news as the paper was bound to give to the public. He himself pointed out the fact that no note of triumph had been sounded, and that the rumour had not been connected with the election.

But Mr. Alf's supporters were very busy. Their Committee had consulted about what should be done as to these charges against Melmotte. The Pulpit of that evening alluded to the affair, but gave no name and mentioned no details.


One old gentleman was of opinion that they were bound to make the most of it. "It's no more than we've all believed all along," said the old gentleman, "and why are we to let a fellow like that get the seat if we can keep him out?" He was of opinion that everything should be done to make the rumour with all its exaggerations as public as possible,--so that there should be no opening for an indictment for libel; and the clever old gentleman was full of devices by which this might be effected. But the Committee generally was averse to fight in this manner. Public opinion has its Bar as well as the Law Courts. If, after all, Melmotte had committed no fraud,--or, as was much more probable, should not be convicted of fraud,--then it would be said that the accusation had been forged for purely electioneering purposes, and there might be a rebound which would pretty well crush all those who had been concerned. Individual gentlemen could, of course, say what they pleased to individual voters; but it was agreed at last that no overt use should be made of the rumours by Mr. Alf's Committee. In regard to other matters, they who worked under the Committee were busy enough. The dinner to the Emperor was turned into ridicule, and the electors were asked whether they felt themselves bound to return a gentleman out of the City to Parliament because he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining all the royalties then assembled in London. There was very much said on placards and published in newspapers to the discredit of Melmotte, but nothing was so printed which would not have appeared with equal venom had the recent rumours never been sent out from the City.

The Committee was averse to fighting the election by making the rumours public. If, after all, Melmotte had committed no fraud - or, as was more probable, should not be convicted of fraud - then it would be said that the accusation had been invented for electioneering purposes.
However, the dinner to the Emperor was ridiculed in the newspaper, and the electors were asked whether they felt they should elect a gentleman to Parliament because he had offered to spend a fortune on entertaining royalty.


At twelve o'clock at night, when Mr. Alf's committee-room was being closed, and when Melmotte was walking home to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was very much in favour of Mr. Alf.

At midnight, when Melmotte was walking home to bed, the general opinion at the clubs was in favour of Mr. Alf.


On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policeman had called for him, nor had any official intimation reached him that an accusation was to be brought against him. On coming down from his bedroom he at once went into the back-parlour on the ground floor, which Mr. Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr. Melmotte had used since he had been in Mr. Longestaffe's house for the work which he did at home. He would be there often early in the morning, and often late at night after Lord Alfred had left him. There were two heavy desk-tables in the room, furnished with drawers down to the ground. One of these the owner of the house had kept locked for his own purposes. When the bargain for the temporary letting of the house had been made, Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe were close friends. Terms for the purchase of Pickering had just been made, and no cause for suspicion had as yet arisen. Everything between the two gentlemen had been managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes!

On the next morning Melmotte was up before eight. As yet no policeman had called for him, nor had any official word reached him that an accusation was to be brought against him. On rising he at once went into the back-parlour which Mr. Longestaffe called his study, and which Mr. Melmotte often used for the work he did at home early in the morning, and late at night.
There were two heavy desks in the room: one of these Mr. Longstaffe had kept locked for his own purposes. When the house had first been let to Melmotte, everything between the two gentlemen had been managed with the greatest ease. Oh dear, yes!


Mr. Longestaffe could come whenever he pleased. He, Melmotte, always left the house at ten and never returned till six. The ladies would never enter that room. The servants were to regard Mr. Longestaffe quite as master of the house as far as that room was concerned. If Mr. Longestaffe could spare it, Mr. Melmotte would take the key of one of the tables. The matter was arranged very pleasantly.

Mr. Longestaffe could come whenever he pleased. The ladies would never enter that room. If Mr. Longestaffe could spare it, Mr. Melmotte would take the key of one of the desks. The matter was arranged very pleasantly.


Mr. Melmotte, on entering the room bolted the door, and then, sitting at his own table, took certain papers out of the drawers,--a bundle of letters and another of small documents. From these, with very little examination, he took three or four,--two or three perhaps from each. These he tore into very small fragments and burned the bits,--holding them over a gas-burner and letting the ashes fall into a large china plate. Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the open window. This he did to all these documents but one. This one he put bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till he swallowed it. When he had done this, and had re-locked his own drawers, he walked across to the other table, Mr. Longestaffe's table, and pulled the handle of one of the drawers. It opened;--and then, without touching the contents, he again closed it. He then knelt down and examined the lock, and the hole above into which the bolt of the lock ran. Having done this he again closed the drawer, drew back the bolt of the door, and, seating himself at his own desk, rang the bell which was close to hand.

Mr. Melmotte, on entering the room, bolted the door, and then, sitting at his own desk, took certain papers out of the drawers: a bundle of letters and another of documents. From these he took three or four. He tore them into very small fragments and burned the bits over a gas-burner, letting the ashes fall into a large china plate. Then he blew the ashes into the yard through the open window. This he did to all these documents but one. This one he put bit by bit into his mouth, chewing the paper into a pulp till he swallowed it.
When he had done this, and had re-locked his own drawers, he walked across to Mr. Longestaffe's desk and pulled the handle of one of the drawers. It opened. Without touching the contents, he again closed it. He then knelt down and examined the lock, and the hole above, into which the bolt of the lock ran. He again closed the drawer, unlocked the study door, and rang the bell.


The servant found him writing letters after his usual hurried fashion, and was told that he was ready for breakfast. He always breakfasted alone with a heap of newspapers around him, and so he did on this day. He soon found the paragraph alluding to himself in the "Pulpit," and read it without a quiver in his face or the slightest change in his colour. There was no one to see him now,--but he was acting under a resolve that at no moment, either when alone, or in a crowd, or when suddenly called upon for words,--not even when the policemen with their first hints of arrest should come upon him,--would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle, or the loss of a drop of blood from his heart. He would go through it, always armed, without a sign of shrinking. It had to be done, and he would do it.

The servant found him writing letters at his desk, and was told that he was ready for breakfast. He always breakfasted alone with a heap of newspapers around him, and so he did on this day.
He soon found the paragraph about himself in the Pulpit, and read it without a quiver in his face. There was no one to see him, but he had resolved that at no moment would he betray himself by the working of a single muscle. Whatever happened, he would go through it without any sign of shrinking.


At ten he walked down to the central committee-room at Whitehall Place. He thought that he would face the world better by walking than if he were taken in his own brougham. He gave orders that the carriage should be at the committee-room at eleven, and wait an hour for him if he was not there. He went along Bond Street and Piccadilly, Regent Street and through Pall Mall to Charing Cross, with the blandly triumphant smile of a man who had successfully entertained the great guest of the day. As he got near the club he met two or three men whom he knew, and bowed to them. They returned his bow graciously enough, but not one of them stopped to speak to him. Of one he knew that he would have stopped, had it not been for the rumour. Even after the man had passed on he was careful to show no displeasure on his face. He would take it all as it would come and still be the blandly triumphant Merchant Prince,--as long as the police would allow him. He probably was not aware how very different was the part he was now playing from that which he had assumed at the India Office.

At ten he walked down to the central committee-room at Whitehall Place. He thought that he would face the world better walking than in his carriage. He went along Bond Street and Piccadilly, Regent Street and Pall Mall to Charing Cross, with the blandly triumphant smile of a man who had successfully entertained the great guest of the day. As he got near the club he met two or three men whom he knew, and bowed to them. They returned his bow graciously enough, but not one of them stopped to speak to him. He was careful to show no displeasure on his face. He would still be the blandly triumphant Merchant Prince - as long as the police would allow him.


At the committee-room he only found a few understrappers, and was informed that everything was going on regularly. The electors were balloting; but with the ballot,--so said the leader of the understrappers,--there never was any excitement. The men looked half-frightened,--as though they did not quite know whether they ought to seize their candidate, and hold him till the constable came. They certainly had not expected to see him there. "Has Lord Alfred been here?" Melmotte asked, standing in the inner room with his back to the empty grate. No,--Lord Alfred had not been there. "Nor Mr. Grendall?" The senior understrapper knew that Melmotte would have asked for "his Secretary," and not for Mr. Grendall, but for the rumours. It is so hard not to tumble into Scylla when you are avoiding Charybdis.

At the committee-room he only found a few underlings. The ballot was under way; but with the ballot - so said these men - there never was any excitement. They looked half-frightened; they had not expected to see him there.
"Has Lord Alfred been here?" Melmotte asked. "Or Mr. Grendall?"


Mr. Grendall had not been there. Indeed, nobody had been there. "In fact, there is nothing more to be done, I suppose?" said Mr. Melmotte. The senior understrapper thought that there was nothing more to be done. He left word that his brougham should be sent away, and strolled out again on foot.

No, nobody had been there.
"There is nothing more to be done, I suppose?" said Mr. Melmotte. The senior underling thought that there was nothing more to be done, and Melmotte strolled out again on foot.


He went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling booth. The place seemed to him, as one of the chief centres for a contested election, to be wonderfully quiet. He was determined to face everybody and everything, and he went close up to the booth. Here he was recognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward and shook hands with him. He remained there for an hour conversing with people, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him. He did not allude to the rumour of yesterday, nor to the paragraph in the "Pulpit" to which his name had not been attached; but he spoke freely enough of the general accusations that had been brought against him previously. He wished the electors to understand that nothing which had been said against him made him ashamed to meet them here or elsewhere. He was proud of his position, and proud that the electors of Westminster should recognise it. He did not, he was glad to say, know much of the law, but he was told that the law would protect him from such aspersions as had been unfairly thrown upon him. He flattered himself that he was too good an Englishman to regard the ordinary political attacks to which candidates were, as a matter of course, subject at elections;--and he could stretch his back to bear perhaps a little more than these, particularly as he looked forward to a triumphant return.

He went up into Covent Garden, where there was a polling booth. The place seemed to him to be wonderfully quiet. He was determined to face everything, and he went up to the booth. Here he was recognised by various men, mechanics chiefly, who came forward and shook hands with him. He remained for an hour conversing with people, and at last made a speech to a little knot around him.
He did not allude to the rumour of yesterday; but he spoke freely of the general accusations that had been brought against him previously. He wished the electors to understand that he was proud of his position, and that the law would protect him from such unfair aspersions. He flattered himself that he was too good an Englishman to bother about the attacks which were made on candidates at elections; particularly as he looked forward to a triumphant return.


But things had been said, and published, which the excitement of an election could not justify, and as to these things he must have recourse to the law. Then he made some allusion to the Princes and the Emperor, and concluded by observing that it was the proudest boast of his life to be an Englishman and a Londoner.
It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he had ever been known to make; and it was certainly successful, as he was applauded throughout Covent Garden. A reporter for the "Breakfast Table" who was on duty at the place, looking for paragraphs as to the conduct of electors, gave an account of the speech in that paper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved. It was asserted afterwards, and given as a great proof of Melmotte's cleverness, that he had planned the thing and gone to Covent Garden all alone having considered that in that way could he best regain a step in reputation; but in truth the affair had not been preconcerted. It was while in Whitehall Place that he had first thought of going to Covent Garden, and he had had no idea of making a speech till the people had gathered round him.

But things had been said, and published, which an election could not justify, and as to these things he must go to law. Then he made some allusion to the Princes and the Emperor, and concluded by saying that it was the proudest boast of his life to be an Englishman and a Londoner.
It was asserted afterwards that this was the only good speech he had ever made; and it was certainly successful. A reporter for the Breakfast Table, who was on duty at the place, gave an account of the speech in that paper, and made more of it, perhaps, than it deserved.


It was then noon, and he had to determine what he should do next. He was half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches. His success at Covent Garden had been very pleasant to him. But he feared that he might not be so successful elsewhere. He had shown that he was not afraid of the electors. Then an idea struck him that he would go boldly into the City,--to his own offices in Abchurch Lane. He had determined to be absent on this day, and would not be expected. But his appearance there could not on that account be taken amiss. Whatever enmities there might be, or whatever perils, he would face them. He got a cab therefore and had himself driven to Abchurch Lane.

It was then noon, and he had to decide what to do next. He was half inclined to go round to all the booths and make speeches. His success at Covent Garden had been very pleasant. But he feared that he might not be so successful elsewhere. An idea struck him that he would go boldly into the City, to his offices in Abchurch Lane, although he would not be expected today. Whatever perils there might be, he would face them.
He got a cab and had himself driven to Abchurch Lane.


The clerks were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a holiday. The dinner, the election, and the rumour together had altogether demoralized them. But some of them at least were there, and they showed no signs of absolute insubordination. "Mr. Grendall has not been here?" he asked. No; Mr. Grendall had not been there; but Mr. Cohenlupe was in Mr. Grendall's room. At this moment he hardly desired to see Mr. Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to many of his transactions, but was by no means privy to them all. Mr. Cohenlupe knew that the estate at Pickering had been purchased, and knew that it had been mortgaged. He knew also what had become of the money which had so been raised.

The clerks there were hanging about doing nothing, as though it were a holiday.
"Mr. Grendall has not been here?" he asked. No; but Mr. Cohenlupe was in Mr. Grendall's room. At this moment he hardly desired to see Mr. Cohenlupe. That gentleman was privy to many of his transactions, but by no means all. Cohenlupe knew that the estate at Pickering had been purchased and mortgaged.


But he knew nothing of the circumstances of the purchase, although he probably surmised that Melmotte had succeeded in getting the title-deeds on credit, without paying the money. He was afraid that he could hardly see Cohenlupe and hold his tongue, and that he could not speak to him without danger. He and Cohenlupe might have to stand in a dock together; and Cohenlupe had none of his spirit. But the clerks would think, and would talk, were he to leave the office without seeing his old friend. He went therefore into his own room, and called to Cohenlupe as he did so.
"Ve didn't expect you here to-day," said the member for Staines.
"Nor did I expect to come. But there isn't much to do at Westminster while the ballot is going on; so I came up, just to look at the letters. The dinner went off pretty well yesterday, eh?"

But he knew nothing of the circumstances of the purchase. Melmotte felt that he could not speak to Cohenlupe without danger. They might have to stand in a dock together. But the clerks would talk if he were to leave the office without seeing his old friend. He went therefore into his room, and called to Cohenlupe.
"Ve didn't expect you here today."
"Nor did I expect to come," said Melmotte. "But there isn't much to do at Westminster while the ballot is going on; so I came to look at the letters. The dinner went off pretty well yesterday, eh?"


"Uncommon;--nothing better. Vy did the Lord Mayor stay away, Melmotte?"
"Because he's an ass and a cur," said Mr. Melmotte with an assumed air of indignation. "Alf and his people had got hold of him. There was ever so much fuss about it at first,--whether he would accept the invitation. I say it was an insult to the City to take it and not to come. I shall be even with him some of these days."
"Things will go on just the same as usual, Melmotte?"

"Uncommon. Vy did the Lord Mayor stay away, Melmotte?"
"Because he's an ass and a cur," said Mr. Melmotte, with assumed indignation. "Alf and his people had got hold of him. I say it was an insult to the City. I shall be even with him one of these days."
"Things will go on just the same as usual, Melmotte?"


"Go on. Of course they'll go. What's to hinder them?"
"There's ever so much been said," whispered Cohenlupe.
"Said;--yes," ejaculated Melmotte very loudly. "You're not such a fool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear. You'll have enough to believe, if you do."
"There's no knowing vat anybody does know, and vat anybody does not know," said Cohenlupe.

"Of course. What's to hinder them?"
"There's ever so much been said," whispered Cohenlupe.
"Said; yes," ejaculated Melmotte very loudly. "You're not such a fool, I hope, as to believe every word you hear."
"There's no knowing vat anybody knows," said Cohenlupe.


"Look you here, Cohenlupe,"--and now Melmotte also sank his voice to a whisper,--"keep your tongue in your mouth; go about just as usual, and say nothing. It's all right. There has been some heavy pulls upon us."
"Oh dear, there has indeed!"
"But any paper with my name to it will come right."
"That's nothing;--nothing at all," said Cohenlupe.
"And there is nothing;--nothing at all! I've bought some property and have paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not yet paid for it. There's no fraud in that."
"No, no,--nothing in that."

"Look here, Cohenlupe," - and Melmotte also sank his voice to a whisper - "go about just as usual, and say nothing. It's all right. Any paper with my name to it will come right. I've bought some property and have paid for it; and I have bought some, and have not yet paid for it. There's no fraud in that."
"No, nothing in that."


"You hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to the bank now." Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits, and was still low in spirits; but he was somewhat better after the visit of the great man to the City.

"Hold your tongue, and go about your business. I'm going to the bank now." Cohenlupe had been very low in spirits; but he was somewhat better after Melmotte's visit.


Mr. Melmotte was as good as his word and walked straight to the bank. He kept two accounts at different banks, one for his business, and one for his private affairs. The one he now entered was that which kept what we may call his domestic account. He walked straight through, after his old fashion, to the room behind the bank in which sat the manager and the manager's one clerk, and stood upon the rug before the fire-place just as though nothing had happened,--or as nearly as though nothing had happened as was within the compass of his powers. He could not quite do it. In keeping up an appearance intended to be natural he was obliged to be somewhat milder than his wont. The manager did not behave nearly as well as he did, and the clerks manifestly betrayed their emotion. Melmotte saw that it was so;--but he had expected it, and had come there on purpose to "put it down."
"We hardly expected to see you in the City to-day, Mr. Melmotte."

Mr. Melmotte walked to the bank where he kept his domestic account rather than his business accounts. He walked straight through to the back room in which sat the manager and the manager's clerk, and stood before the fire-place just as though nothing had happened.
The manager did not behave nearly as well, and the clerks betrayed their emotion. Melmotte saw it; but he had expected it, and had come on purpose to "put it down."
"We hardly expected to see you in the City today, Mr. Melmotte."


"And I didn't expect to see myself here. But it always happens that when one expects that there's most to be done, there's nothing to be done at all. They're all at work down at Westminster, balloting; but as I can't go on voting for myself, I'm of no use. I've been at Covent Garden this morning, making a stump speech, and if all that they say there is true, I haven't much to be afraid of."
"And the dinner went off pretty well?" asked the manager.

"And I didn't expect to see myself here. But they're all at work down at Westminster, balloting; and as I can't vote for myself, I'm of no use. I've been at Covent Garden this morning, making a stump speech."
"And the dinner went off pretty well?" asked the manager.


"Very well, indeed. They say the Emperor liked it better than anything that has been done for him yet." This was a brilliant flash of imagination. "For a friend to dine with me every day, you know, I should prefer somebody who had a little more to say for himself. But then, perhaps, you know, if you or I were in China we shouldn't have much to say for ourselves;--eh?" The manager acceded to this proposition. "We had one awful disappointment. His lordship from over the way didn't come."
"The Lord Mayor, you mean."

"Very well, indeed. They say the Emperor liked it better than anything that has been done for him yet." This was a brilliant flash of imagination. "For a dining companion, I should prefer somebody with a little more to say for himself. But then, perhaps, if you or I were in China we shouldn't have much to say for ourselves; eh? We had one disappointment.


"The Lord Mayor didn't come! He was frightened at the last moment;--took it into his head that his authority in the City was somehow compromised. But the wonder was that the dinner went on without him." Then Melmotte referred to the purport of his call there that day. He would have to draw large cheques for his private wants. "You don't give a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing, you know." He had been in the habit of over-drawing on his private account,--making arrangements with the manager. But now, in the manager's presence, he drew a regular cheque on his business account for a large sum, and then, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the 250 which he had received from Mr. Broune on account of the money which Sir Felix had taken from Marie.
"There don't seem much the matter with him," said the manager, when Melmotte had left the room.

The Lord Mayor didn't come. But the dinner went on without him."
Then Melmotte referred to the purpose of his call. He would have to draw large cheques for his private wants. "You don't give a dinner to an Emperor of China for nothing." He drew a regular cheque on his business account for a large sum, and then, as a sort of afterthought, paid in the 250 which he had received from Mr. Broune.
"There don't seem much the matter with him," said the manager, when Melmotte had left.


"He brazens it out, don't he?" said the senior clerk. But the feeling of the room after full discussion inclined to the opinion that the rumours had been a political manoeuvre. Nevertheless, Mr. Melmotte would not now have been allowed to overdraw at the present moment.

"He brazens it out, don't he?" said the senior clerk. They inclined to the opinion that the rumours had been a political manuvre. Nevertheless, Mr. Melmotte would not have been allowed to overdraw at the present moment.


In another part of Suffolk, not very far from Bungay, there was a lady whose friends had not managed her affairs as well as Ruby's friends had done for Ruby. Miss Georgiana Longestaffe in the early days of August was in a very miserable plight. Her sister's marriage with Mr. George Whitstable was fixed for the first of September, a day which in Suffolk is of all days the most sacred; and the combined energies of the houses of Caversham and Toodlam were being devoted to that happy event. Poor Georgey's position was in every respect wretched, but its misery was infinitely increased by the triumph of those hymeneals. It was but the other day that she had looked down from a very great height on her elder sister, and had utterly despised the squire of Toodlam. And at that time, still so recent, this contempt from her had been accepted as being almost reasonable. Sophia had hardly ventured to rebel against it, and Mr. Whitstable himself had been always afraid to encounter the shafts of irony with which his fashionable future sister-in-law attacked him. But all that was now changed. Sophia in her pride of place had become a tyrant, and George Whitstable, petted in the house with those sweetmeats which are always showered on embryo bridegrooms, absolutely gave himself airs. At this time Mr. Longestaffe was never at home.

In another part of Suffolk, not far from Bungay, Miss Georgiana Longestaffe was in a very miserable plight. Her sister's marriage with Mr. George Whitstable was fixed for the first of September, and poor Georgey's misery was greatly increased by the triumph of that coming wedding. It was only the other day that she had looked down from a great height on her elder sister, and had utterly despised the squire of Toodlam. But now Sophia in her pride of place had become a tyrant, and George Whitstable absolutely gave himself airs.
At this time Mr. Longestaffe was never at home.