There can be no doubt that the greater part of the people assembled did believe that their host had committed some great fraud which might probably bring him under the arm of the law. When such rumours are spread abroad, they are always believed. There is an excitement and a pleasure in believing them. Reasonable hesitation at such a moment is dull and phlegmatic. If the accused one be near enough to ourselves to make the accusation a matter of personal pain, of course we disbelieve. But, if the distance be beyond this, we are almost ready to think that anything may be true of anybody. In this case nobody really loved Melmotte and everybody did believe. It was so probable that such a man should have done something horrible! It was only hoped that the fraud might be great and horrible enough.

There can be no doubt that most of the people there did believe that their host had committed some great fraud which might bring him under the arm of the law. Such rumours are always believed. There is an excitement and a pleasure in believing them. Reasonable hesitation at such a moment is dull and phlegmatic. As long as the accused one is not near to ourselves, we are almost ready to think anything of anybody. In this case everybody did believe. It was so probable that such a man should have done something horrible! It was only hoped that the fraud might be great and horrible enough.


Melmotte himself during that part of the evening which was passed up-stairs kept himself in the close vicinity of royalty. He behaved certainly very much better than he would have done had he had no weight at his heart. He made few attempts at beginning any conversation, and answered, at any rate with brevity, when he was addressed. With scrupulous care he ticked off on his memory the names of those who had come and whom he knew, thinking that their presence indicated a verdict of acquittal from them on the evidence already before them. Seeing the members of the Government all there, he wished that he had come forward in Westminster as a Liberal. And he freely forgave those omissions of Royalty as to which he had been so angry at the India Office, seeing that not a Prince or Princess was lacking of those who were expected. He could turn his mind to all this, although he knew how great was his danger. Many things occurred to him as he stood, striving to smile as a host should smile. It might be the case that half-a-dozen detectives were already stationed in his own hall,--perhaps one or two, well dressed, in the very presence of royalty,--ready to arrest him as soon as the guests were gone, watching him now lest he should escape. But he bore the burden,--and smiled.

Melmotte himself behaved very much better than he would have done had he had no weight at his heart. He made few attempts at beginning any conversation, and answered with brevity when he was addressed. With scrupulous care he ticked off on his memory the names of those who had come, thinking that their presence indicated a verdict of acquittal from them. Seeing the members of the Government all there, he wished that he had come forward in Westminster as a Liberal.
Many things occurred to him as he stood, striving to smile as a host should smile. Half-a-dozen detectives might be already stationed in his own hall, ready to arrest him as soon as the guests were gone. But he bore the burden, and smiled.


He had always lived with the consciousness that such a burden was on him and might crush him at any time. He had known that he had to run these risks. He had told himself a thousand times that when the dangers came, dangers alone should never cow him. He had always endeavoured to go as near the wind as he could, to avoid the heavy hand of the criminal law of whatever country he inhabited. He had studied the criminal laws, so that he might be sure in his reckonings; but he had always felt that he might be carried by circumstances into deeper waters than he intended to enter. As the soldier who leads a forlorn hope, or as the diver who goes down for pearls, or as the searcher for wealth on fever-breeding coasts, knows that as his gains may be great, so are his perils, Melmotte had been aware that in his life, as it opened itself out to him, he might come to terrible destruction. He had not always thought, or even hoped, that he would be as he was now, so exalted as to be allowed to entertain the very biggest ones of the earth; but the greatness had grown upon him,--and so had the danger. He could not now be as exact as he had been. He was prepared himself to bear all mere ignominy with a tranquil mind,--to disregard any shouts of reprobation which might be uttered, and to console himself when the bad quarter of an hour should come with the remembrance that he had garnered up a store sufficient for future wants and placed it beyond the reach of his enemies. But as his intellect opened up to him new schemes, and as his ambition got the better of his prudence, he gradually fell from the security which he had preconceived, and became aware that he might have to bear worse than ignominy.

He had always lived with the consciousness that such a burden lay on him and might crush him at any time. He had known that he had to run these risks, and had told himself that they should never cow him. He had always tried to go as near the wind as he could, while avoiding the heavy hand of the criminal law; but he had also felt that he might be carried into deeper waters than he intended to enter.
Melmotte had not always thought, or even hoped, that he would be so exalted as he was now; but the greatness had grown upon him - and so had the danger. He had prepared himself to bear all mere ignominy with a tranquil mind, and to remember that he had garnered up a store sufficient for future needs and placed it beyond the reach of his enemies. But now he became aware that he might have to bear worse than ignominy.


Perhaps never in his life had he studied his own character and his own conduct more accurately, or made sterner resolves, than he did as he stood there smiling, bowing, and acting without impropriety the part of host to an Emperor. No;--he could not run away. He soon made himself sure of that. He had risen too high to be a successful fugitive, even should he succeed in getting off before hands were laid upon him. He must bide his ground, if only that he might not at once confess his own guilt by flight; and he would do so with courage. Looking back at the hour or two that had just passed he was aware that he had allowed himself not only to be frightened in the dinner-room,--but also to seem to be frightened. The thing had come upon him unawares and he had been untrue to himself. He acknowledged that. He should not have asked those questions of Mr. Todd and Mr. Beauclerk, and should have been more good-humoured than usual with Lord Alfred in discussing those empty seats. But for spilt milk there is no remedy.

Perhaps never in his life had he studied his own character and conduct more accurately, or made sterner resolves, than he did as he stood there smiling and bowing. No; he could not run away. He had risen too high. He must stand his ground, and not confess his own guilt by flight. Looking back at the past hour or two he was aware that he had allowed himself to be frightened - and also to seem to be frightened. He should not have asked those questions of Mr. Todd and Mr. Beauclerk.
But there is no remedy for spilt milk.


The blow had come upon him too suddenly, and he had faltered. But he would not falter again. Nothing should cow him,--no touch from a policeman, no warrant from a magistrate, no defalcation of friends, no scorn in the City, no solitude in the West End. He would go down among the electors to-morrow and would stand his ground, as though all with him were right. Men should know at any rate that he had a heart within his bosom. And he confessed also to himself that he had sinned in that matter of arrogance. He could see it now,--as so many of us do see the faults which we have committed, which we strive, but in vain, to discontinue, and which we never confess except to our own bosoms. The task which he had imposed on himself, and to which circumstances had added weight, had been very hard to bear. He should have been good-humoured to these great ones whose society he had gained. He should have bound these people to him by a feeling of kindness as well as by his money.

He had faltered at the sudden blow, but he would not falter again. No policeman or magistrate, no defection of friends, no scorn in the City would affect him. He would go down among the electors tomorrow as though all were right.
And he confessed also to himself that he had sinned in that matter of arrogance. He could see it now. He should have been good-humoured to these great ones whose society he had gained. He should have bound these people to him by a feeling of kindness as well as by his money.


He could see it all now. And he could see too that there was no help for spilt milk. I think he took some pride in his own confidence as to his own courage, as he stood there turning it all over in his mind. Very much might be suspected. Something might be found out. But the task of unravelling it all would not be easy. It is the small vermin and the little birds that are trapped at once. But wolves and vultures can fight hard before they are caught. With the means which would still be at his command, let the worst come to the worst, he could make a strong fight. When a man's frauds have been enormous there is a certain safety in their very diversity and proportions.

I think he took some pride in his confidence as to his own courage, as he stood there turning it all over in his mind. Very much might be suspected; something might be found out. But the task of unravelling it all would not be easy. It is the small vermin that are trapped at once; but wolves and vultures can fight hard before they are caught. He could make a strong fight. When a man's frauds have been enormous there is a certain safety in their very diversity and proportions.


Might it not be that the fact that these great ones of the earth had been his guests should speak in his favour? A man who had in very truth had the real brother of the Sun dining at his table could hardly be sent into the dock and then sent out of it like a common felon.

A man who had had the brother of the Sun dining at his table could hardly be sent into the dock like a common felon.


Madame Melmotte during the evening stood at the top of her own stairs with a chair behind her on which she could rest herself for a moment when any pause took place in the arrivals. She had of course dined at the table,--or rather sat there;--but had been so placed that no duty had devolved upon her. She had heard no word of the rumours, and would probably be the last person in that house to hear them. It never occurred to her to see whether the places down the table were full or empty. She sat with her large eyes fixed on the Majesty of China and must have wondered at her own destiny at finding herself with an Emperor and Princes to look at. From the dining-room she had gone when she was told to go, up to the drawing-room, and had there performed her task, longing only for the comfort of her bedroom. She, I think, had but small sympathy with her husband in all his work, and but little understanding of the position in which she had been placed. Money she liked, and comfort, and perhaps diamonds and fine dresses, but she can hardly have taken pleasure in duchesses or have enjoyed the company of the Emperor. From the beginning of the Melmotte era it had been an understood thing that no one spoke to Madame Melmotte.

Madame Melmotte during the evening stood at the top of her own stairs greeting the arrivals. She had heard no word of the rumours, and would probably be the last person in that house to hear them. It never occurred to her to see whether the places down the table were full or empty. She sat with her large eyes fixed on the Majesty of China.


Marie Melmotte had declined a seat at the dinner-table. This at first had been cause of quarrel between her and her father, as he desired to have seen her next to young Lord Nidderdale as being acknowledged to be betrothed to him. But since the journey to Liverpool he had said nothing on the subject. He still pressed the engagement, but thought now that less publicity might be expedient. She was, however, in the drawing-room standing at first by Madame Melmotte, and afterwards retreating among the crowd. To some ladies she was a person of interest as the young woman who had lately run away under such strange circumstances; but no one spoke to her till she saw a girl whom she herself knew, and whom she addressed, plucking up all her courage for the occasion. This was Hetta Carbury who had been brought hither by her mother.

Marie Melmotte had declined a seat at the dinner-table. This had caused a quarrel between her and her father, as he wanted her to be seen sitting next to Lord Nidderdale. She was, however, in the drawing-room, standing at first by Madame Melmotte, and afterwards retreating among the crowd. To some ladies she was a person of interest; but no one spoke to her till she saw a girl whom she knew, and whom she addressed, plucking up all her courage. This was Hetta Carbury, who had been brought by her mother.


The tickets for Lady Carbury and Hetta had of course been sent before the elopement;--and also, as a matter of course, no reference had been made to them by the Melmotte family after the elopement. Lady Carbury herself was anxious that that affair should not be considered as having given cause for any personal quarrel between herself and Mr. Melmotte, and in her difficulty had consulted Mr. Broune. Mr. Broune was the staff on which she leant at present in all her difficulties. Mr. Broune was going to the dinner. All this of course took place while Melmotte's name was as yet unsullied as snow. Mr. Broune saw no reason why Lady Carbury should not take advantage of her tickets. These invitations were simply tickets to see the Emperor surrounded by the Princes. The young lady's elopement is "no affair of yours," Mr. Broune had said. "I should go, if it were only for the sake of showing that you did not consider yourself to be implicated in the matter." Lady Carbury did as she was advised, and took her daughter with her.

The tickets for Lady Carbury and Hetta had of course been sent before the elopement; and Lady Carbury was anxious that that affair should not be seen to have caused any personal quarrel between herself and Mr. Melmotte. In her difficulty she had consulted Mr. Broune, who was going to the dinner, and who saw no reason why she should not go.
"The young lady's elopement is no affair of yours," Mr. Broune had said. "I should go, if only to show that you do not consider yourself implicated in the matter."
Lady Carbury did as she was advised, and took her daughter with her.


"Nonsense," said the mother, when Hetta objected; "Mr. Broune sees it quite in the right light. This is a grand demonstration in honour of the Emperor, rather than a private party;--and we have done nothing to offend the Melmottes. You know you wish to see the Emperor." A few minutes before they started from Welbeck Street a note came from Mr. Broune, written in pencil and sent from Melmotte's house by a Commissioner. "Don't mind what you hear; but come. I am here and as far as I can see it is all right. The E. is beautiful, and P.'s are as thick as blackberries." Lady Carbury, who had not been in the way of hearing the reports, understood nothing of this; but of course she went. And Hetta went with her.

A few minutes before they started from Welbeck Street a note came from Mr. Broune:
"Don't mind what you hear; but come. I am here and as far as I can see it is all right. The E. is beautiful, and P.'s are as thick as blackberries." Lady Carbury understood nothing of this; but of course she went. And Hetta went with her.


Hetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who was talking to Mr. Booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillity of the Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte timidly crept up to her and asked her how she was. Hetta, probably, was not very cordial to the poor girl, being afraid of her, partly as the daughter of the great Melmotte and partly as the girl with whom her brother had failed to run away; but Marie was not rebuked by this. "I hope you won't be angry with me for speaking to you." Hetta smiled more graciously. She could not be angry with the girl for speaking to her, feeling that she was there as the guest of the girl's mother. "I suppose you know about your brother," said Marie, whispering with her eyes turned to the ground.
"I have heard about it," said Hetta. "He never told me himself."

Hetta was standing alone in a corner, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillity of the Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte timidly crept up and asked her how she was. Hetta was probably not very cordial to the poor girl, as the daughter of the great Melmotte with whom her brother had failed to run away.
"I hope you won't be angry with me for speaking to you," said Marie.
Hetta smiled more graciously.
"I suppose you know about your brother," said Marie, whispering with her eyes turned to the ground.
"I have heard about it," said Hetta. "He never told me himself."


"Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth. I know nothing. Of course, Miss Carbury, I love him. I do love him so dearly! I hope you don't think I would have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybody in the world. Don't you think that if a girl loves a man,--really loves him,--that ought to go before everything?"
This was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to answer. She felt quite certain that under no circumstances would she run away with a man. "I don't quite know. It is so hard to say," she replied.

"Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth. I know nothing. Miss Carbury, I love him so dearly! I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybody in the world. Don't you think that if a girl really loves a man, that ought to go before everything?"
This was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to answer. She felt certain that under no circumstances would she run away with a man. "I don't quite know."


"I do. What's the good of anything if you're to be broken-hearted? I don't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he would only be true to me. Why doesn't he--let me know--something about it?" This also was a question difficult to be answered. Since that horrid morning on which Sir Felix had stumbled home drunk,--which was now four days since,--he had not left the house in Welbeck Street till this evening. He had gone out a few minutes before Lady Carbury had started, but up to that time he had almost kept his bed. He would not get up till dinner-time, would come down after some half-dressed fashion, and then get back to his bedroom, where he would smoke and drink brandy-and-water and complain of headache. The theory was that he was ill;--but he was in fact utterly cowed and did not dare to show himself at his usual haunts. He was aware that he had quarrelled at the club, aware that all the world knew of his intended journey to Liverpool, aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated.

"I do. What's the good of anything if you're broken-hearted? I don't care what they do to me, if he would only be true to me. Why doesn't he let me know - something about it?"
This was also difficult to answer. Since that horrid morning on which Sir Felix had stumbled home drunk, four days ago, he had not left the house in Welbeck Street till this evening. He had stayed in bed till dinner-time, would come down half-dressed, and then go back to his bedroom, where he would smoke and drink brandy-and-water and complain of headache. The theory was that he was ill; but he was in fact utterly cowed and did not dare to show himself at his usual haunts. He was aware that he had quarrelled at the club, aware that all the world knew of his intended journey to Liverpool, aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated.


He had not dared to show himself, and the feeling had grown upon him from day to day. Now, fairly worn out by his confinement, he had crept out intending, if possible, to find consolation with Ruby Ruggles. "Do tell me. Where is he?" pleaded Marie.
"He has not been very well lately."
"Is he ill? Oh, Miss Carbury, do tell me. You can understand what it is to love him as I do;--can't you?"

This evening, worn out by his confinement, he had crept out intending, if possible, to find consolation with Ruby Ruggles.
"Do tell me. Where is he?" pleaded Marie.
"He has not been very well lately."
"Is he ill? Oh, Miss Carbury, do tell me."


"He has been ill. I think he is better now."
"Why does he not come to me, or send to me; or let me know something? It is cruel, is it not? Tell me,--you must know,--does he really care for me?"
Hetta was exceedingly perplexed. The real feeling betrayed by the girl recommended her. Hetta could not but sympathize with the affection manifested for her own brother, though she could hardly understand the want of reticence displayed by Marie in thus speaking of her love to one who was almost a stranger. "Felix hardly ever talks about himself to me," she said.

"He has been ill. I think he is better now."
"Why does he not come to me, or send word to me? It is cruel, is it not? Tell me - you must know - does he really care for me?"
Hetta was exceedingly perplexed. The real feeling shown by the girl made Hetta sympathize with her, though she could hardly understand Marie's lack of reticence in speaking of her love to one who was almost a stranger.
"Felix hardly ever talks about himself to me," she said.


"If he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it," Marie said very gravely. "If I only knew! If I thought that he loved me, I'd go through,--oh,--all the world for him. Nothing that papa could say should stop me. That's my feeling about it. I have never talked to any one but you about it. Isn't that strange? I haven't a person to talk to. That's my feeling, and I'm not a bit ashamed of it. There's no disgrace in being in love.

"If he doesn't care for me, there shall be an end of it," Marie said very gravely. "If I only knew! If I thought that he loved me, I'd go through anything for him. I have never talked to anyone but you about it. Isn't that strange? I have no one to talk to. There's no disgrace in being in love.


But it's very bad to get married without being in love. That's what I think."
"It is bad," said Hetta, thinking of Roger Carbury.


"But if Felix doesn't care for me!" continued Marie, sinking her voice to a low whisper, but still making her words quite audible to her companion. Now Hetta was strongly of opinion that her brother did not in the least "care for" Marie Melmotte, and that it would be very much for the best that Marie Melmotte should know the truth. But she had not that sort of strength which would have enabled her to tell it. "Tell me just what you think," said Marie. Hetta was still silent. "Ah,--I see. Then I must give him up? Eh?"

"But if Felix doesn't care for me!" continued Marie in a whisper. Now Hetta was strongly of the opinion that her brother did not in the least care for her, and thought that Marie should know the truth. But she had not the strength to tell it.
"Tell me just what you think," said Marie. Hetta was still silent. "Ah - I see. Then I must give him up?"


"What can I say, Miss Melmotte? Felix never tells me. He is my brother,--and of course I love you for loving him." This was almost more than Hetta meant; but she felt herself constrained to say some gracious word.

"What can I say, Miss Melmotte? Felix never tells me. He is my brother, and of course I love you for loving him." This was almost more than Hetta meant; but she felt obliged to say some gracious word.


"Do you? Oh! I wish you did. I should so like to be loved by you. Nobody loves me, I think. That man there wants to marry me. Do you know him? He is Lord Nidderdale. He is very nice; but he does not love me any more than he loves you. That's the way with men.

"Do you? Oh! I wish you did. I should so like to be loved by you. Nobody loves me, I think. That man there, Lord Nidderdale, wants to marry me. He is very nice; but he does not love me. That's the way with men.


It isn't the way with me. I would go with Felix and slave for him if he were poor. Is it all to be over then? You will give him a message from me?" Hetta, doubting as to the propriety of the promise, promised that she would. "Just tell him I want to know; that's all. I want to know. You'll understand. I want to know the real truth. I suppose I do know it now.

It isn't the way with me. I would go with Felix and slave for him if he were poor. Is it all to be over then? Will you give him a message from me?"
Hetta, though doubting the propriety of this, promised that she would.
"Just tell him I want to know; that's all. I want to know the real truth. I suppose I do know it now.


Then I shall not care what happens to me. It will be all the same. I suppose I shall marry that young man, though it will be very bad. I shall just be as if I hadn't any self of my own at all. But he ought to send me word after all that has passed. Do not you think he ought to send me word?"
"Yes, indeed."
"You tell him, then," said Marie, nodding her head as she crept away.

Then I shall not care what happens to me. I suppose I shall marry that young man, though it will be very bad. I shall just be as if I hadn't any self of my own. But he ought to send me word. Do not you think so?"
"Yes, indeed."
"You tell him, then," said Marie, as she crept away.


Nidderdale had been observing her while she had been talking to Miss Carbury. He had heard the rumour, and of course felt that it behoved him to be on his guard more specially than any one else. But he had not believed what he had heard. That men should be thoroughly immoral, that they should gamble, get drunk, run into debt, and make love to other men's wives, was to him a matter of every-day life. Nothing of that kind shocked him at all. But he was not as yet quite old enough to believe in swindling. It had been impossible to convince him that Miles Grendall had cheated at cards, and the idea that Mr. Melmotte had forged was as improbable and shocking to him as that an officer should run away in battle. Common soldiers, he thought, might do that sort of thing. He had almost fallen in love with Marie when he saw her last, and was inclined to feel the more kindly to her now because of the hard things that were being said about her father. And yet he knew that he must be careful.

Nidderdale had been observing her while she had been talking to Miss Carbury. He had heard the rumour about Melmotte, but he had not believed it. That men should gamble, get drunk, run into debt, and make love to other men's wives, was to him a matter of everyday life. Nothing of that kind shocked him at all. But he was not yet quite old enough to believe in swindling.
He had almost fallen in love with Marie when he saw her last, and was inclined to feel kindly to her now because of the hard things that were being said about her father. And yet he knew that he must be careful.


If "he came a cropper" in this matter, it would be such an awful cropper! "How do you like the party?" he said to Marie.
"I don't like it at all, my lord. How do you like it?"
"Very much, indeed. I think the Emperor is the greatest fun I ever saw. Prince Frederic,"--one of the German princes who was staying at the time among his English cousins,--"Prince Frederic says that he's stuffed with hay, and that he's made up fresh every morning at a shop in the Haymarket."
"I've seen him talk."

If "he came a cropper" in this matter, it would be such an awful cropper!
"How do you like the party?" he said to Marie.
"I don't like it at all, my lord. How do you like it?"
"Very much indeed. I think the Emperor is the greatest fun I ever saw. Prince Frederic says that he's stuffed with hay."
"I've seen him talk."


"He opens his mouth, of course. There is machinery as well as hay. I think he's the grandest old buffer out, and I'm awfully glad that I've dined with him. I couldn't make out whether he really put anything to eat into his jolly old mouth."
"Of course he did."
"Have you been thinking about what we were talking about the other day?"
"No, my lord,--I haven't thought about it since. Why should I?"
"Well;--it's a sort of thing that people do think about, you know."
"You don't think about it."

"He opens his mouth, of course. There is machinery as well as hay. I think he's the grandest old buffer out, and I'm awfully glad that I've dined with him. I couldn't make out whether he really ate anything."
"Of course he did."
"Have you thought of what we were talking about the other day?"
"No, my lord. Why should I?"


"Don't I? I've been thinking about nothing else the last three months."
"You've been thinking whether you'd get married or not."
"That's what I mean," said Lord Nidderdale.
"It isn't what I mean, then."
"I'll be shot if I can understand you."

"I've been thinking about nothing else the last three months."
"You've been thinking whether you'd get married or not."
"That's what I mean," said Lord Nidderdale.
"It isn't what I mean, though."
"I'll be shot if I can understand you."


"Perhaps not. And you never will understand me. Oh, goodness;--they're all going, and we must get out of the way. Is that Prince Frederic, who told you about the hay? He is handsome; isn't he? And who is that in the violet dress;--with all the pearls?"
"That's the Princess Dwarza."

"Perhaps not. And you never will understand me. Oh, goodness; they're all going, and we must get out of the way. Is that Prince Frederic? He is handsome; isn't he?


"Dear me;--isn't it odd, having a lot of people in one's own house, and not being able to speak a word to them? I don't think it's at all nice. Good night, my lord. I'm glad you like the Emperor."

Isn't it odd, having a lot of people in one's own house, and not being able to speak a word to them? Good night, my lord. I'm glad you liked the Emperor."


And then the people went, and when they had all gone Melmotte put his wife and daughter into his own carriage, telling them that he would follow them on foot to Bruton Street when he had given some last directions to the people who were putting out the lights, and extinguishing generally the embers of the entertainment. He had looked round for Lord Alfred, taking care to avoid the appearance of searching; but Lord Alfred had gone. Lord Alfred was one of those who knew when to leave a falling house. Melmotte at the moment thought of all that he had done for Lord Alfred, and it was something of the real venom of ingratitude that stung him at the moment rather than this additional sign of coming evil. He was more than ordinarily gracious as he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that, considering all things, the party had gone off very well. "I only wish it could have been done a little cheaper," he said laughing. Then he went back into the house, and up into the drawing-rooms which were now utterly deserted. Some of the lights had been put out, but the men were busy in the rooms below, and he threw himself into the chair in which the Emperor had sat. It was wonderful that he should come to such a fate as this;--that he, the boy out of the gutter, should entertain at his own house, in London, a Chinese Emperor and English and German Royalty,--and that he should do so almost with a rope round his neck. Even if this were to be the end of it all, men would at any rate remember him.

The people went. When they had all gone Melmotte put his wife and daughter into his carriage, telling them that he would follow them on foot to Bruton Street after giving some last directions to the servants. He looked round for Lord Alfred; but Lord Alfred had gone. Melmotte thought of all that he had done for Lord Alfred, and the venom of ingratitude stung him.
He was unusually gracious as he put his wife into the carriage, and remarked that the party had gone off very well.
"I only wish it could have been done a little cheaper," he said, laughing. Then he went back into the house, and up into the deserted drawing-rooms. The men were busy in the rooms below, and he threw himself into the chair in which the Emperor had sat.
It was wonderful that he, the boy out of the gutter, should entertain at his own house a Chinese Emperor and English and German Royalty - and that he should do so almost with a rope round his neck. Even if this were to be the end of it all, men would at any rate remember him.


The grand dinner which he had given before he was put into prison would live in history. And it would be remembered, too, that he had been the Conservative candidate for the great borough of Westminster,--perhaps, even, the elected member. He, too, in his manner, assured himself that a great part of him would escape Oblivion. "Non omnis moriar," in some language of his own, was chanted by him within his own breast, as he sat there looking out on his own magnificent suite of rooms from the arm-chair which had been consecrated by the use of an Emperor.

The grand dinner would live in history. And it would be remembered, too, that he had been the Conservative candidate for Westminster - perhaps the elected member. Part of him would escape Oblivion, he thought, as he sat there looking at his magnificent suite of rooms from the arm-chair which had been consecrated by the use of an Emperor.


No policemen had come to trouble him yet. No hint that he would be "wanted" had been made to him. There was no tangible sign that things were not to go on as they went before. Things would be exactly as they were before, but for the absence of those guests from the dinner-table, and for the words which Miles Grendall had spoken. Had he not allowed himself to be terrified by shadows? Of course he had known that there must be such shadows. His life had been made dark by similar clouds before now, and he had lived through the storms which had followed them. He was thoroughly ashamed of the weakness which had overcome him at the dinner-table, and of that palsy of fear which he had allowed himself to exhibit. There should be no more shrinking such as that. When people talked of him they should say that he was at least a man.

No policemen had come to trouble him yet. There was no tangible sign that things were not to go on as they went before. Had he allowed himself to be terrified by shadows? Of course he had known that there must be such shadows. His life had been made dark by similar clouds before now, and he had lived through the storms. He was thoroughly ashamed of the weakness and fear which had overcome him at the dinner-table. There should be no more shrinking such as that.


As this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in through one of the doors, and immediately withdrawn. It was his Secretary. "Is that you, Miles?" he said. "Come in. I'm just going home, and came up here to see how the empty rooms would look after they were all gone. What became of your father?"
"I suppose he went away."
"I suppose he did," said Melmotte, unable to hinder himself from throwing a certain tone of scorn into his voice,--as though proclaiming the fate of his own house and the consequent running away of the rat. "It went off very well, I think."

As this was passing through his mind a head was pushed in through one of the doors.
"Is that you, Miles?" he said. "Come in. I came up here to see how the empty rooms would look after they were all gone. What became of your father?"
"I suppose he went away."
"I suppose he did," said Melmotte, unable to prevent a certain scorn entering his voice. "It went off very well, I think."


"Very well," said Miles, still standing at the door. There had been a few words of consultation between him and his father,--only a very few words. "You'd better see it out to-night, as you've had a regular salary, and all that. I shall hook it. I sha'n't go near him to-morrow till I find out how things are going. By G----, I've had about enough of him." But hardly enough of his money,--or it may be presumed that Lord Alfred would have "hooked it" sooner.
"Why don't you come in, and not stand there?" said Melmotte. "There's no Emperor here now for you to be afraid of."

"Very well," said Miles, still standing at the door. There had been a few words of consultation between him and his father. "You'd better see it out tonight," his father had said, "as you've had a regular salary. I shan't go near him till I find out how things are going. By G__ , I've had about enough of him."
"Why don't you come in?" said Melmotte. "There's no Emperor here now for you to be afraid of."


"I'm afraid of nobody," said Miles, walking into the middle of the room.
"Nor am I. What's one man that another man should be afraid of him? We've got to die, and there'll be an end of it, I suppose."
"That's about it," said Miles, hardly following the working of his master's mind.
"I shouldn't care how soon. When a man has worked as I have done, he gets about tired at my age. I suppose I'd better be down at the committee-room about ten to-morrow?"
"That's the best, I should say."

"I'm afraid of nobody," said Miles, walking into the room.
"Nor am I. What's one man that another man should be afraid of him? We've got to die, and there'll be an end of it, I suppose."
"That's about it," said Miles, hardly following the working of his master's mind.
"I shouldn't care how soon. When a man has worked as I have done, he gets tired. I suppose I'd better be down at the committee-room about ten tomorrow?"
"That's the best, I should say."


"You'll be there by that time?" Miles Grendall assented slowly, and with imperfect assent. "And tell your father he might as well be there as early as convenient."
"All right," said Miles as he took his departure.

"You'll be there?" Miles Grendall assented slowly. "And tell your father he might as well be there early."
"All right," said Miles as left.


"Curs!" said Melmotte almost aloud. "They neither of them will be there. If any evil can be done to me by treachery and desertion, they will do it." Then it occurred to him to think whether the Grendall article had been worth all the money that he had paid for it. "Curs!" he said again. He walked down into the hall, and through the banqueting-room, and stood at the place where he himself had sat. What a scene it had been, and how frightfully low his heart had sunk within him! It had been the defection of the Lord Mayor that had hit him hardest.

"Curs!" said Melmotte almost aloud. "Neither of them will be there. If any evil can be done to me by treachery and desertion, they will do it. Curs!" He walked down into the hall, and through the banqueting-room. What a scene it had been! The defection of the Lord Mayor had hit him the hardest.


"What cowards they are!" The men went on with their work, not noticing him, and probably not knowing him. The dinner had been done by contract, and the contractor's foreman was there. The care of the house and the alterations had been confided to another contractor, and his foreman was waiting to see the place locked up. A confidential clerk, who had been with Melmotte for years, and who knew his ways, was there also to guard the property. "Good night, Croll," he said to the man in German. Croll touched his hat and bade him good night. Melmotte listened anxiously to the tone of the man's voice, trying to catch from it some indication of the mind within. Did Croll know of these rumours, and if so, what did he think of them? Croll had known him in some perilous circumstances before, and had helped him through them.

"What cowards they are!" The men went on with their work, not noticing him, and probably not knowing him. A clerk who had been with Melmotte for years, and who knew his ways, was there to guard the property.
"Good night, Croll," he said to the man in German. Croll touched his hat and bade him good night. Melmotte listened anxiously to the tone of the man's voice. Did Croll know of these rumours, and if so, what did he think of them? Croll had helped him through perils before.


He paused a moment as though he would ask a question, but resolved at last that silence would be safest. "You'll see everything safe, eh, Croll?" Croll said that he would see everything safe, and Melmotte passed out into the Square.
He had not far to go, round through Berkeley Square into Bruton Street, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the bright stars. If he could be there, in one of those unknown distant worlds, with all his present intellect and none of his present burdens, he would, he thought, do better than he had done here on earth. If he could even now put himself down nameless, fameless, and without possessions in some distant corner of the world, he could, he thought, do better. But he was Augustus Melmotte, and he must bear his burdens, whatever they were, to the end. He could reach no place so distant but that he would be known and traced.
[Illustration: Mr. Melmotte speculates.]

He paused as though he would ask a question, but resolved at last that silence would be safest. "You'll see everything safe, eh, Croll?"
Croll said that he would, and Melmotte passed out into the Square. He had not far to go to Bruton Street, but he stood for a few moments looking up at the bright stars. If he could be there, in one of those unknown distant worlds, with all his present intellect and none of his present burdens, he would, he thought, do better than he had done here on earth. But he was Augustus Melmotte, and he must bear his burdens to the end. He could reach no place so distant that he would not be known and traced.


About this time, a fortnight or nearly so before the election, Mr. Longestaffe came up to town and saw Mr. Melmotte very frequently. He could not go into his own house, as he had let that for a month to the great financier, nor had he any establishment in town; but he slept at an hotel and lived at the Carlton. He was quite delighted to find that his new friend was an honest Conservative, and he himself proposed the honest Conservative at the club. There was some idea of electing Mr. Melmotte out of hand, but it was decided that the club could not go beyond its rule, and could only admit Mr. Melmotte out of his regular turn as soon as he should occupy a seat in the House of Commons. Mr. Melmotte, who was becoming somewhat arrogant, was heard to declare that if the club did not take him when he was willing to be taken, it might do without him. If not elected at once, he should withdraw his name. So great was his prestige at this moment with his own party that there were some, Mr. Longestaffe among the number, who pressed the thing on the committee. Mr. Melmotte was not like other men. It was a great thing to have Mr. Melmotte in the party. Mr. Melmotte's financial capabilities would in themselves be a tower of strength.

At this time, a fortnight before the election, Mr. Longestaffe came up to town and saw Mr. Melmotte very frequently. He could not go into his own house, as he had let that for a month to the great financier, but he lived at the Carlton. He was delighted to find that his new friend was an honest Conservative, and proposed him as a member at the club. However, according to the rules it was decided that the club could only admit Mr. Melmotte once he occupied a seat in the House of Commons.
Mr. Melmotte, who was becoming somewhat arrogant, was heard to declare that the club might do without him. If not elected at once, he should withdraw his name. So great was his prestige at this moment that there were some, Mr. Longestaffe included, who tried to persuade the committee that Mr. Melmotte was not like other men.


Rules were not made to control the club in a matter of such importance as this. A noble lord, one among seven who had been named as a fit leader of the Upper House on the Conservative side in the next session, was asked to take the matter up; and men thought that the thing might have been done had he complied. But he was old-fashioned, perhaps pig-headed; and the club for the time lost the honour of entertaining Mr. Melmotte.

Rules should not control the club in a matter of such importance as this. But the club for the time lost the honour of entertaining Mr. Melmotte.


It may be remembered that Mr. Longestaffe had been anxious to become one of the directors of the Mexican Railway, and that he was rather snubbed than encouraged when he expressed his wish to Mr. Melmotte. Like other great men, Mr. Melmotte liked to choose his own time for bestowing favours. Since that request was made the proper time had come, and he had now intimated to Mr. Longestaffe that in a somewhat altered condition of things there would be a place for him at the Board, and that he and his brother directors would be delighted to avail themselves of his assistance. The alliance between Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe had become very close. The Melmottes had visited the Longestaffes at Caversham. Georgiana Longestaffe was staying with Madame Melmotte in London. The Melmottes were living in Mr. Longestaffe's town house, having taken it for a month at a very high rent. Mr. Longestaffe now had a seat at Mr. Melmotte's board. And Mr. Melmotte had bought Mr. Longestaffe's estate at Pickering on terms very favourable to the Longestaffes. It had been suggested to Mr. Longestaffe by Mr. Melmotte that he had better qualify for his seat at the Board by taking shares in the Company to the amount of--perhaps two or three thousand pounds, and Mr. Longestaffe had of course consented.

It may be remembered that Mr. Longestaffe had been anxious to become one of the directors of the Mexican Railway, and that he was snubbed when he expressed his wish to Mr. Melmotte. Like other great men, Mr. Melmotte liked to choose his own time for bestowing favours. The time had now come, and he had let Mr. Longestaffe know that there would be a place for him at the Board.
The alliance between Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Longestaffe had become very close. And Mr. Melmotte had bought Mr. Longestaffe's estate at Pickering on terms very favourable to the Longestaffes. Mr. Melmotte suggested to Mr. Longestaffe that he had better qualify for his seat at the Board by taking shares in the Company to the amount of two or three thousand pounds, and Mr. Longestaffe had of course consented.


There would be no need of any transaction in absolute cash. The shares could of course be paid for out of Mr. Longestaffe's half of the purchase money for Pickering Park, and could remain for the present in Mr. Melmotte's hands. To this also Mr. Longestaffe had consented, not quite understanding why the scrip should not be made over to him at once.

No ready cash was needed. The shares could be paid for out of Mr. Longestaffe's half of the purchase money for Pickering Park, and could remain for the present in Mr. Melmotte's hands. To this also Mr. Longestaffe had consented, not quite understanding why the scrip should not be made over to him at once.


It was a part of the charm of all dealings with this great man that no ready money seemed ever to be necessary for anything. Great purchases were made and great transactions apparently completed without the signing even of a cheque. Mr. Longestaffe found himself to be afraid even to give a hint to Mr. Melmotte about ready money. In speaking of all such matters Melmotte seemed to imply that everything necessary had been done, when he had said that it was done. Pickering had been purchased and the title-deeds made over to Mr. Melmotte; but the 80,000 had not been paid,--had not been absolutely paid, though of course Mr. Melmotte's note assenting to the terms was security sufficient for any reasonable man. The property had been mortgaged, though not heavily, and Mr. Melmotte had no doubt satisfied the mortgagee; but there was still a sum of 50,000 to come, of which Dolly was to have one half and the other was to be employed in paying off Mr. Longestaffe's debts to tradesmen and debts to the bank. It would have been very pleasant to have had this at once,--but Mr. Longestaffe felt the absurdity of pressing such a man as Mr. Melmotte, and was partly conscious of the gradual consummation of a new ra in money matters. "If your banker is pressing you, refer him to me," Mr. Melmotte had said. As for many years past we have exchanged paper instead of actual money for our commodities, so now it seemed that, under the new Melmotte rgime, an exchange of words was to suffice.

It was a part of the charm of all dealings with this great man that no ready money seemed ever to be necessary for anything. Great transactions were apparently completed without the signing even of a cheque. Mr. Longestaffe was afraid even to give a hint to Mr. Melmotte about ready money. Pickering had been purchased and the title-deeds made over to Mr. Melmotte; but the 80,000 had not been paid, though of course Mr. Melmotte's note assenting to the terms was security sufficient for any reasonable man. The property had been mortgaged, but there was still a sum of 50,000 to come, of which Dolly was to have one half and the other was to be used in paying off Mr. Longestaffe's debts. It would have been very pleasant to have had this at once - but Mr. Longestaffe felt the absurdity of pressing such a man as Mr. Melmotte.


But Dolly wanted his money. Dolly, idle as he was, foolish as he was, dissipated as he was and generally indifferent to his debts, liked to have what belonged to him. It had all been arranged. 5,000 would pay off all his tradesmen's debts and leave him comfortably possessed of money in hand, while the other 20,000 would make his own property free. There was a charm in this which awakened even Dolly, and for the time almost reconciled him to his father's society. But now a shade of impatience was coming over him. He had actually gone down to Caversham to arrange the terms with his father,--and had in fact made his own terms. His father had been unable to move him, and had consequently suffered much in spirit. Dolly had been almost triumphant,--thinking that the money would come on the next day, or at any rate during the next week. Now he came to his father early in the morning,--at about two o'clock,--to enquire what was being done.

But Dolly wanted his money. Dolly, idle and foolish as he was, liked to have what belonged to him. 5,000 would pay off all his tradesmen's debts and leave him comfortably possessed of money in hand, while the other 20,000 would make his own property free. Dolly was growing impatient. He had actually gone down to Caversham to arrange the terms with his father, and had been almost triumphant, thinking that the money would come the next day, or at any rate during the next week.
Now Dolly came to his father to enquire what was being done.


He had not as yet been made blessed with a single ten-pound note in his hand, as the result of the sale.
"Are you going to see Melmotte, sir?" he asked somewhat abruptly.
"Yes;--I'm to be with him to-morrow, and he is to introduce me to the Board."
"You're going in for that, are you, sir? Do they pay anything?"
"I believe not."
"Nidderdale and young Carbury belong to it. It's a sort of Beargarden affair."

He had not as yet been blessed with a single ten-pound note as the result of the sale.
"Are you going to see Melmotte, sir?" he asked somewhat abruptly.
"Yes, tomorrow; and he is to introduce me to the Board."
"You're going in for that, are you, sir? Do they pay anything?"
"I believe not."
"Nidderdale and young Carbury belong to it


"A bear-garden affair, Adolphus. How so?"
"I mean the club. We had them all there for dinner one day, and a jolly dinner we gave them. Miles Grendall and old Alfred belong to it. I don't think they'd go in for it, if there was no money going. I'd make them fork out something if I took the trouble of going all that way."
"I think that perhaps, Adolphus, you hardly understand these things."

, and Miles Grendall and old Alfred. I don't think they'd go in for it, if there was no money going. I'd make them fork out something."
"I think that perhaps, Adolphus, you hardly understand these things."


"No, I don't. I don't understand much about business, I know. What I want to understand is, when Melmotte is going to pay up this money."
"I suppose he'll arrange it with the banks," said the father.

"No, I don't understand much about business, I know. What I want to understand is, when Melmotte is going to pay up this money."
"I suppose he'll arrange it with the banks," said the father.


"I beg that he won't arrange my money with the banks, sir. You'd better tell him not. A cheque upon his bank which I can pay in to mine is about the best thing going. You'll be in the city to-morrow, and you'd better tell him. If you don't like, you know, I'll get Squercum to do it." Mr. Squercum was a lawyer whom Dolly had employed of late years much to the annoyance of his parent. Mr. Squercum's name was odious to Mr. Longestaffe.
"I beg you'll do nothing of the kind. It will be very foolish if you do;--perhaps ruinous."

"I beg that he won't arrange my money with the banks, sir. I want a cheque upon his bank which I can pay in to mine. You'd better tell him. If you don't like, you know, I'll get Squercum to do it." Mr. Squercum was a lawyer whom Dolly had employed lately, much to the annoyance of his parent.
"I beg you'll do nothing of the kind."


"Then he'd better pay up, like anybody else," said Dolly as he left the room. The father knew the son, and was quite sure that Squercum would have his finger in the pie unless the money were paid quickly. When Dolly had taken an idea into his head, no power on earth,--no power at least of which the father could avail himself,--would turn him.

"Then he'd better pay up, like anybody else," said Dolly as he left the room. His father was quite sure that Squercum would have his finger in the pie unless the money were paid quickly. When Dolly had taken an idea into his head, no power on earth would turn him.


On that same day Melmotte received two visits in the city from two of his fellow directors. At the time he was very busy. Though his electioneering speeches were neither long nor pithy, still he had to think of them beforehand. Members of his Committee were always trying to see him. Orders as to the dinner and the preparation of the house could not be given by Lord Alfred without some reference to him. And then those gigantic commercial affairs which were enumerated in the last chapter could not be adjusted without much labour on his part. His hands were not empty, but still he saw each of these young men,--for a few minutes. "My dear young friend, what can I do for you?" he said to Sir Felix, not sitting down, so that Sir Felix also should remain standing.
"About that money, Mr. Melmotte?"

On that same day Melmotte received visits from two of his fellow directors. At the time he was very busy. He had speeches to write. Members of his Committee were always trying to see him. Orders as to the dinner and the preparation of the house had to be given. And then his gigantic commercial affairs required much labour on his part.
Still he saw each of these young men for a few minutes. "My dear young friend, what can I do for you?" he said to Sir Felix, not sitting down, so that Sir Felix also should remain standing.
"About that money, Mr. Melmotte?"


"What money, my dear fellow? You see that a good many money matters pass through my hands."
"The thousand pounds I gave you for shares. If you don't mind, and as the shares seem to be a bother, I'll take the money back."
"It was only the other day you had 200," said Melmotte, showing that he could apply his memory to small transactions when he pleased.
"Exactly;--and you might as well let me have the 800."
"I've ordered the shares;--gave the order to my broker the other day."
"Then I'd better take the shares," said Sir Felix, feeling that it might very probably be that day fortnight before he could start for New York. "Could I get them, Mr. Melmotte?"
"My dear fellow, I really think you hardly calculate the value of my time when you come to me about such an affair as this."

"What money, my dear fellow? A good many money matters pass through my hands."
"The thousand pounds I gave you for shares. If you don't mind, as the shares seem to be a bother, I'll take the money back."
"It was only the other day you had 200," said Melmotte.
"Exactly; and you might as well let me have the 800."
"I've ordered the shares; gave the order to my broker the other day."
"Then I'd better take the shares," said Sir Felix. "Could I get them, Mr. Melmotte?"
"My dear fellow, I really think you hardly calculate the value of my time when you come to me about such an affair as this."


"I'd like to have the money or the shares," said Sir Felix, who was not specially averse to quarrelling with Mr. Melmotte now that he had resolved upon taking that gentleman's daughter to New York in direct opposition to his written promise. Their quarrel would be so thoroughly internecine when the departure should be discovered, that any present anger could hardly increase its bitterness. What Felix thought of now was simply his money, and the best means of getting it out of Melmotte's hands.
"You're a spendthrift," said Melmotte, apparently relenting, "and I'm afraid a gambler. I suppose I must give you 200 more on account."

"I'd like to have the money or the shares," said Sir Felix, who was not especially averse to quarrelling with Mr. Melmotte now that he had resolved upon taking that gentleman's daughter to New York. Their quarrel would be so bitter when the departure should be discovered, that any present anger could hardly increase its bitterness. What Felix thought of now was simply his money.
"You're a spendthrift," said Melmotte, apparently relenting, "and I'm afraid a gambler. I can give you 200 more on account."


Sir Felix could not resist the touch of ready money, and consented to take the sum offered. As he pocketed the cheque he asked for the name of the brokers who were employed to buy the shares. But here Melmotte demurred. "No, my friend," said Melmotte; "you are only entitled to shares for 600 pounds now. I will see that the thing is put right." So Sir Felix departed with 200 only. Marie had said that she could get 200. Perhaps if he bestirred himself and wrote to some of Miles's big relations he could obtain payment of a part of that gentleman's debt to him.

Sir Felix could not resist the touch of ready money, and consented. As he pocketed the cheque he asked for the name of the brokers who were employed to buy the shares.
But here Melmotte demurred. "No, my friend. You are only entitled to shares for 600 now. I will see that the thing is put right."
So Sir Felix departed with 200 only. Marie had said that she could get 200. Perhaps if he wrote to some of Miles's relations he could obtain payment of part of that gentleman's debt to him.


Sir Felix going down the stairs in Abchurch Lane met Paul Montague coming up. Carbury, on the spur of the moment, thought that he would "take a rise" as he called it out of Montague. "What's this I hear about a lady at Islington?" he asked.
"Who has told you anything about a lady at Islington?"
"A little bird. There are always little birds about telling of ladies. I'm told that I'm to congratulate you on your coming marriage."

Sir Felix going down the stairs in Abchurch Lane met Paul Montague coming up. Carbury, on the spur of the moment, said, "What's this I hear about a lady at Islington?"
"Who has told you anything about a lady at Islington?"
"A little bird. I'm told that I'm to congratulate you on your coming marriage."


"Then you've been told an infernal falsehood," said Montague passing on. He paused a moment and added, "I don't know who can have told you, but if you hear it again, I'll trouble you to contradict it." As he was waiting in Melmotte's outer room while the Duke's nephew went in to see whether it was the great man's pleasure to see him, he remembered whence Carbury must have heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle. Of course the rumour had come through Ruby Ruggles.
Miles Grendall brought out word that the great man would see Mr. Montague; but he added a caution. "He's awfully full of work just now,--you won't forget that;--will you?" Montague assured the duke's nephew that he would be concise, and was shown in.
"I should not have troubled you," said Paul, "only that I understood that I was to see you before the Board met."

"Then you've been told an infernal falsehood," said Montague, passing on. He paused and added, "I don't know who can have told you, but if you hear it again, I'll trouble you to contradict it." As he was waiting in Melmotte's outer room, he thought that of course the rumour had come through Ruby Ruggles.
Miles Grendall came out and said that the great man would see him; but was very busy. Paul assured him that he would be concise, and was shown in.
"I should not have troubled you," said Paul to Melmotte, "only I understood that I was to see you before the Board met."


"Exactly;--of course. It was quite necessary,--only you see I am a little busy. If this d----d dinner were over I shouldn't mind. It's a deal easier to make a treaty with an Emperor, than to give him a dinner; I can tell you that. Well;--let me see. Oh;--I was proposing that you should go out to Pekin?"
"To Mexico."

"Exactly; of course - only you see I am a little busy. If this d___d dinner were over I shouldn't mind. Let me see. Oh; I was proposing that you should go out to Peking?"
"To Mexico."


"Yes, yes;--to Mexico. I've so many things running in my head! Well;--if you'll say when you're ready to start, we'll draw up something of instructions. You'd know better, however, than we can tell you what to do. You'll see Fisker, of course. You and Fisker will manage it. The chief thing will be a cheque for the expenses; eh? We must get that passed at the next Board."
Mr. Melmotte had been so quick that Montague had been unable to interrupt him. "There need be no trouble about that, Mr. Melmotte, as I have made up my mind that it would not be fit that I should go."

"Yes, yes; to Mexico. I've so many things running in my head! Well; if you'll say when you're ready to start, we'll draw up some instructions. You'll see Fisker, of course. You and Fisker will manage it. The chief thing will be a cheque for the expenses; eh? We must get that passed at the next Board."
"Mr. Melmotte, I have made up my mind that it would not be fit that I should go."


"Oh, indeed!"
There had been a shade of doubt on Montague's mind, till the tone in which Melmotte had spoken of the embassy grated on his ears. The reference to the expenses disgusted him altogether. "No;--even did I see my way to do any good in America my duties here would not be compatible with the undertaking."
"I don't see that at all. What duties have you got here? What good are you doing the Company? If you do stay, I hope you'll be unanimous; that's all;--or perhaps you intend to go out. If that's it, I'll look to your money. I think I told you that before."

"Oh, indeed!"
"No; even if I saw my way to do any good in America, my duties here would not be compatible with the trip."
"I don't see that at all. What duties have you got here? If you do stay, I hope you'll be unanimous; that's all; or perhaps you intend to get out. If that's it, I'll look to your money."


"That, Mr. Melmotte, is what I should prefer."
"Very well,--very well. I'll arrange it. Sorry to lose you,--that's all. Miles, isn't Mr. Goldsheiner waiting to see me?"
"You're a little too quick, Mr. Melmotte," said Paul.
"A man with my business on his hands is bound to be quick, sir."
"But I must be precise. I cannot tell you as a fact that I shall withdraw from the Board till I receive the advice of a friend with whom I am consulting. I hardly yet know what my duty may be."

"That, Mr. Melmotte, is what I should prefer."
"Very well, very well. I'll arrange it. Sorry to lose you, that's all. Miles, isn't Mr. Goldsheiner waiting to see me?"
"You're a little too quick, Mr. Melmotte," said Paul. "I cannot tell you as a fact that I shall withdraw from the Board till I receive the advice of a friend with whom I am consulting. I do not yet know what my duty may be."


"I'll tell you, sir, what can not be your duty. It cannot be your duty to make known out of that Board-room any of the affairs of the Company which you have learned in that Board-room. It cannot be your duty to divulge the circumstances of the Company or any differences which may exist between Directors of the Company, to any gentleman who is a stranger to the Company. It cannot be your duty--."
"Thank you, Mr. Melmotte. On matters such as that I think that I can see my own way. I have been in fault in coming in to the Board without understanding what duties I should have to perform--."
"Very much in fault, I should say," replied Melmotte, whose arrogance in the midst of his inflated glory was overcoming him.
"But in reference to what I may or may not say to any friend, or how far I should be restricted by the scruples of a gentleman, I do not want advice from you."

"I'll tell you, sir, what cannot be your duty. You cannot make known any of the affairs of the Company which you have learned in that Board-room. You cannot divulge the circumstances of the Company to any gentleman who is a stranger to the Company."
"Thank you, Mr. Melmotte. On matters such as that I think that I can see my own way. I have been in fault in coming in to the Board without understanding my duties."
"Very much in fault, I should say," replied Melmotte, whose arrogance was overcoming him.
"But in reference to what I may or may not say to any friend, I do not want advice from you."


"Very well;--very well. I can't ask you to stay, because a partner from the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner is waiting to see me, about matters which are rather more important than this of yours." Montague had said what he had to say, and departed.

"Very well; very well. I can't ask you to stay, because Goldsheiner is waiting to see me, about more important matters." Montague had said what he had to say, and departed.


On the following day, three-quarters of an hour before the meeting of the Board of Directors, old Mr. Longestaffe called in Abchurch Lane. He was received very civilly by Miles Grendall, and asked to sit down. Mr. Melmotte quite expected him, and would walk with him over to the offices of the railway, and introduce him to the Board. Mr. Longestaffe, with some shyness, intimated his desire to have a few moments conversation with the chairman before the Board met. Fearing his son, especially fearing Squercum, he had made up his mind to suggest that the little matter about Pickering Park should be settled. Miles assured him that the opportunity should be given him, but that at the present moment the chief secretary of the Russian Legation was with Mr. Melmotte. Either the chief secretary was very tedious with his business, or else other big men must have come in, for Mr. Longestaffe was not relieved till he was summoned to walk off to the Board five minutes after the hour at which the Board should have met. He thought that he could explain his views in the street; but on the stairs they were joined by Mr. Cohenlupe, and in three minutes they were in the Board-room. Mr. Longestaffe was then presented, and took the chair opposite to Miles Grendall. Montague was not there, but had sent a letter to the secretary explaining that for reasons with which the chairman was acquainted he should absent himself from the present meeting.

On the following day, before the meeting of the Board of Directors, old Mr. Longestaffe called in Abchurch Lane. He was received very civilly by Miles Grendall. Mr. Melmotte quite expected him, and would walk with him over to the offices of the railway, and introduce him to the Board.
Mr. Longestaffe, with some shyness, said he desired to have a few moments' conversation with the chairman before the Board met. Fearing his son and Squercum, he had made up his mind to suggest that the little matter about Pickering Park should be settled.
Miles assured him that the opportunity should be given him, but that at the present moment the chief secretary of the Russian Legation was with Mr. Melmotte. The chief secretary must have been very tedious with his business, for Mr. Longestaffe was not summoned to walk off to the Board until five minutes after the Board should have met. He thought that he could explain his views in the street; but on the stairs they were joined by Mr. Cohenlupe, and in three minutes they were in the Board-room.
Mr. Longestaffe was presented, and took the chair opposite Miles Grendall. Montague was not there, but had sent a letter to the secretary explaining that for reasons known to the chairman he was absent.


"All right," said Melmotte. "I know all about it. Go on. I'm not sure but that Mr. Montague's retirement from among us may be an advantage. He could not be made to understand that unanimity in such an enterprise as this is essential. I am confident that the new director whom I have had the pleasure of introducing to you to-day will not sin in the same direction." Then Mr. Melmotte bowed and smiled very sweetly on Mr. Longestaffe.

"All right," said Melmotte. "I know all about it. Mr. Montague's retirement may be an advantage. He could not be made to understand that unanimity in such an enterprise is essential. I am confident that our new director will not sin in the same direction." Mr. Melmotte bowed and smiled very sweetly on Mr. Longestaffe.


Mr. Longestaffe was astonished to find how soon the business was done, and how very little he had been called on to do. Miles Grendall had read something out of a book which he had been unable to follow. Then the chairman had read some figures. Mr. Cohenlupe had declared that their prosperity was unprecedented;--and the Board was over. When Mr. Longestaffe explained to Miles Grendall that he still wished to speak to Mr. Melmotte, Miles explained to him that the chairman had been obliged to run off to a meeting of gentlemen connected with the interior of Africa, which was now being held at the Cannon Street Hotel.

Mr. Longestaffe was astonished to find how soon the business was done, and how very little he had been called on to do. Miles Grendall had read something out of a book which he had been unable to follow. Then the chairman had read some figures. Mr. Cohenlupe had declared that their prosperity was unprecedented; and the Board was over. When Mr. Longestaffe told Miles that he still wished to speak to Mr. Melmotte, Miles explained to him that the chairman had been obliged to run off to a meeting about the interior of Africa, which was being held at the Cannon Street Hotel.


Our poor old honest friend John Crumb was taken away to durance vile after his performance in the street with Sir Felix, and was locked up for the remainder of the night. This indignity did not sit so heavily on his spirits as it might have done on those of a quicker nature. He was aware that he had not killed the baronet, and that he had therefore enjoyed his revenge without the necessity of "swinging for it at Bury." That in itself was a comfort to him. Then it was a great satisfaction to think that he had "served the young man out" in the actual presence of his Ruby. He was not prone to give himself undue credit for his capability and willingness to knock his enemies about; but he did think that Ruby must have observed on this occasion that he was the better man of the two. And, to John, a night in the station-house was no great personal inconvenience. Though he was very proud of his four-post bed at home, he did not care very much for such luxuries as far as he himself was concerned. Nor did he feel any disgrace from being locked up for the night. He was very good-humoured with the policeman, who seemed perfectly to understand his nature, and was as meek as a child when the lock was turned upon him.

Our poor old honest friend John Crumb was taken away to the cells after his performance in the street with Sir Felix, and was locked up for the rest of the night. He was not downcast; for it was a great satisfaction to think that he had "served the young man right" in the presence of his Ruby. Although he was not vain, he did think that Ruby must have observed that he was the better man of the two.
Nor did he feel any disgrace from being locked up for the night. He was as meek as a child, and very good-humoured with the policeman, who seemed to understand his nature.


As he lay down on the hard bench, he comforted himself with thinking that Ruby would surely never care any more for the "baronite" since she had seen him go down like a cur without striking a blow. He thought a good deal about Ruby, but never attributed any blame to her for her share in the evils that had befallen him.
The next morning he was taken before the magistrates, but was told at an early hour of the day that he was again free. Sir Felix was not much the worse for what had happened to him, and had refused to make any complaint against the man who had beaten him. John Crumb shook hands cordially with the policeman who had had him in charge, and suggested beer. The constable, with regrets, was forced to decline, and bade adieu to his late prisoner with the expression of a hope that they might meet again before long. "You come down to Bungay," said John, "and I'll show you how we live there."
From the police-office he went direct to Mrs. Pipkin's house, and at once asked for Ruby. He was told that Ruby was out with the children, and was advised both by Mrs. Pipkin and Mrs. Hurtle not to present himself before Ruby quite yet. "You see," said Mrs. Pipkin, "she's a thinking how heavy you were upon that young gentleman."

As he lay down on the hard bench, he comforted himself with thinking that Ruby would surely never care any more for the "baronite" since she had seen him go down like a cur without striking a blow. He thought a good deal about Ruby, but never blamed her for what had happened.
The next morning he was taken before the magistrates, but was told that he was again free. Sir Felix had refused to make any complaint against him. John Crumb shook hands cordially with the policeman, and suggested beer. The constable, with regrets, was forced to decline, and bade adieu with the hope that they might meet again before long.
From the police-office John went to Mrs. Pipkin's house, and asked for Ruby. He was told that Ruby was out with the children, and was advised both by Mrs. Pipkin and Mrs. Hurtle not to meet her quite yet.
"You see," said Mrs. Pipkin, "she's a thinking how heavy you were upon that young gentleman."


"But I wasn't;--not particular. Lord love you, he ain't a hair the wuss."
"You let her alone for a time," said Mrs. Hurtle. "A little neglect will do her good."
"Maybe," said John,--"only I wouldn't like her to have it bad. You'll let her have her wittles regular, Mrs. Pipkin."
It was then explained to him that the neglect proposed should not extend to any deprivation of food, and he took his leave, receiving an assurance from Mrs. Hurtle that he should be summoned to town as soon as it was thought that his presence there would serve his purposes; and with loud promises repeated to each of the friendly women that as soon as ever a "line should be dropped" he would appear again upon the scene, he took Mrs. Pipkin aside, and suggested that if there were "any hextras," he was ready to pay for them. Then he took his leave without seeing Ruby, and went back to Bungay.
When Ruby returned with the children she was told that John Crumb had called. "I thought as he was in prison," said Ruby.

"But I wasn't; not particular. Lord love you, he ain't a hair the worse."
"You let her alone for a time," said Mrs. Hurtle. "A little neglect will do her good."
"Maybe," said John. "I wouldn't like her to have it bad."
Mrs. Hurtle assured him that he should be summoned to town as soon as it was thought that his presence there would serve his purposes; and he took Mrs. Pipkin aside, and suggested that if there were "any hextras," he was ready to pay for them. Then he took his leave without seeing Ruby, and went back to Bungay.
When Ruby returned with the children she was told that John Crumb had called.
"I thought as he was in prison," said Ruby.


"What should they keep him in prison for?" said Mrs. Pipkin. "He hasn't done nothing as he oughtn't to have done. That young man was dragging you about as far as I can make out, and Mr. Crumb just did as anybody ought to have done to prevent it. Of course they weren't going to keep him in prison for that. Prison indeed! It isn't him as ought to be in prison."
"And where is he now, aunt?"

"What should they keep him in prison for?" said Mrs. Pipkin. "He hasn't done nothing as he oughtn't to have done. That young man was dragging you about, and Mr. Crumb just did as anybody ought to have done to prevent it. Prison indeed! It isn't him as ought to be in prison."
"And where is he now, aunt?"


"Gone down to Bungay to mind his business, and won't be coming here any more of a fool's errand. He must have seen now pretty well what's worth having, and what ain't. Beauty is but skin deep, Ruby."
"John Crumb 'd be after me again to-morrow, if I'd give him encouragement," said Ruby. "If I'd hold up my finger he'd come."

"Gone down to Bungay to mind his business, and won't be coming here any more of a fool's errand. He must have seen now pretty well what's worth having, and what ain't."
"John Crumb'd be after me again tomorrow, if I just hold up my finger," said Ruby.


"Then John Crumb's a fool for his pains, that's all; and now do you go about your work." Ruby didn't like to be told to go about her work, and tossed her head, and slammed the kitchen door, and scolded the servant girl, and then sat down to cry. What was she to do with herself now? She had an idea that Felix would not come back to her after the treatment he had received;--and a further idea that if he did come he was not, as she phrased it to herself, "of much account." She certainly did not like him the better for having been beaten, though, at the time, she had been disposed to take his part. She did not believe that she would ever dance with him again. That had been the charm of her life in London, and that was now all over. And as for marrying her,--she began to feel certain that he did not intend it. John Crumb was a big, awkward, dull, uncouth lump of a man, with whom Ruby thought it impossible that a girl should be in love. Love and John Crumb were poles asunder.

"Then John Crumb's a fool; and now you go about your work."
Ruby tossed her head, and slammed the kitchen door, and scolded the servant girl, and then sat down to cry. What was she to do with herself now? She had an idea that Felix would not come back to her after that beating - and she certainly did not like him the better for having been beaten. She did not believe that she would ever dance with him again. That had been the charm of her life in London, and that was now over. And as for marrying her - she began to feel certain that Sir Felix did not intend it.
John Crumb was a big, awkward, dull, uncouth lump of a man, with whom Ruby thought it impossible that a girl should be in love. Love and John Crumb were poles asunder.


But--! Ruby did not like wheeling the perambulator about Islington, and being told by her aunt Pipkin to go about her work. What Ruby did like was being in love and dancing; but if all that must come to an end, then there would be a question whether she could not do better for herself, than by staying with her aunt and wheeling the perambulator about Islington.
Mrs. Hurtle was still living in solitude in the lodgings, and having but little to do on her own behalf, had devoted herself to the interest of John Crumb. A man more unlike one of her own countrymen she had never seen. "I wonder whether he has any ideas at all in his head," she had said to Mrs. Pipkin. Mrs. Pipkin had replied that Mr. Crumb had certainly a very strong idea of marrying Ruby Ruggles. Mrs. Hurtle had smiled, thinking that Mrs. Pipkin was also very unlike her own countrywomen. But she was very kind to Mrs. Pipkin, ordering rice-puddings on purpose that the children might eat them, and she was quite determined to give John Crumb all the aid in her power.

But-! Ruby did not like wheeling the pram about Islington, and being told by her aunt Pipkin to go about her work.
Mrs. Hurtle was still living in solitude in the lodgings, and took an interest in John Crumb. A man more unlike one of her own countrymen she had never seen.
"I wonder whether he has any ideas at all in his head," she had said to Mrs. Pipkin. Mrs. Pipkin had replied that Mr. Crumb had certainly a very strong idea of marrying Ruby Ruggles. Mrs. Hurtle had smiled. She was determined to give John Crumb all the aid in her power.


In order that she might give effectual aid she took Mrs. Pipkin into confidence, and prepared a plan of action in reference to Ruby. Mrs. Pipkin was to appear as chief actor on the scene, but the plan was altogether Mrs. Hurtle's plan. On the day following John's return to Bungay Mrs. Pipkin summoned Ruby into the back parlour, and thus addressed her. "Ruby, you know, this must come to an end now."
"What must come to an end?"
"You can't stay here always, you know."
"I'm sure I work hard, Aunt Pipkin, and I don't get no wages."
"I can't do with more than one girl,--and there's the keep if there isn't wages. Besides, there's other reasons. Your grandfather won't have you back there; that's certain."

So she took Mrs. Pipkin into her confidence, and prepared a plan of action. On the day after John's return to Bungay Mrs. Pipkin summoned Ruby into the back parlour, and spoke to her.
"Ruby, this must come to an end now. You can't stay here always, you know."
"I'm sure I work hard, Aunt Pipkin, and I don't get no wages."
"There's the keep if there isn't wages. Besides, there's other reasons. Your grandfather won't have you back; that's certain."


"I wouldn't go back to grandfather, if it was ever so."
"But you must go somewheres. You didn't come to stay here always,--nor I couldn't have you. You must go into service."
"I don't know anybody as 'd have me," said Ruby.

"I wouldn't go back to grandfather."
"But you must go somewheres. You didn't come to stay here always. You must go into service."
"I don't know anybody as 'd have me," said Ruby.


"You must put a 'vertisement into the paper. You'd better say as nursemaid, as you seems to take kindly to children. And I must give you a character;--only I shall say just the truth. You mustn't ask much wages just at first." Ruby looked very sorrowful, and the tears were near her eyes. The change from the glories of the music hall was so startling and so oppressive! "It has got to be done sooner or later, so you may as well put the 'vertisement in this afternoon."
"You're going to turn me out, Aunt Pipkin."

"You must put a 'vertisement into the paper. You'd better say nursemaid, as you seems to take kindly to children. And I must give you a character; only I shall say just the truth. You mustn't ask much wages at first."
Ruby looked very sorrowful, and the tears were near her eyes. The change from the glories of the music hall was so startling and so oppressive!
"It has got to be done, so you may as well put the 'vertisement in this afternoon."
"You're going to turn me out, Aunt Pipkin."


"Well;--if that's turning out, I am. You see you never would be said by me as though I was mistress. You would go out with that rapscallion when I bid you not. Now when you're in a regular place like, you must mind when you're spoke to, and it will be best for you. You've had your swing, and now you see you've got to pay for it. You must earn your bread, Ruby, as you've quarrelled both with your lover and with your grandfather."
There was no possible answer to this, and therefore the necessary notice was put into the paper,--Mrs. Hurtle paying for its insertion. "Because, you know," said Mrs. Hurtle, "she must stay here really, till Mr. Crumb comes and takes her away." Mrs. Pipkin expressed her opinion that Ruby was a "baggage" and John Crumb a "soft." Mrs. Pipkin was perhaps a little jealous at the interest which her lodger took in her niece, thinking perhaps that all Mrs. Hurtle's sympathies were due to herself.

"Well; if that's turning out, I am. You never acted like I was your mistress. You would go out with that rapscallion when I bid you not. Now when you're in a regular place like, you must mind when you're spoke to. You must earn your bread, Ruby."
There was no possible answer to this, and the notice was put into the paper - Mrs. Hurtle paying.
"You know," said Mrs. Hurtle, "she must stay here really, till Mr. Crumb comes and takes her away." Mrs. Pipkin expressed her opinion that Ruby was a "baggage" and John Crumb "soft."


Ruby went hither and thither for a day or two, calling upon the mothers of children who wanted nursemaids. The answers which she had received had not come from the highest members of the aristocracy, and the houses which she visited did not appal her by their splendour. Many objections were made to her. A character from an aunt was objectionable. Her ringlets were objectionable. She was a deal too flighty-looking. She spoke up much too free. At last one happy mother of five children offered to take her on approval for a month, at 12 a year, Ruby to find her own tea and wash for herself. This was slavery;--abject slavery. And she too, who had been the beloved of a baronet, and who might even now be the mistress of a better house than that into which she was to go as a servant,--if she would only hold up her finger!

Ruby went hither and thither for a day or two, calling upon the mothers of children who wanted nursemaids. The houses which she visited were not great and splendid. Many objections were made to her: her ringlets were objectionable. She was too flighty-looking. She spoke up much too free.
At last one mother of five children offered to take her on approval for a month, at 12 a year, Ruby to find her own tea and wash for herself. This was abject slavery. And she who had been the beloved of a baronet, and who might even now be the mistress of a house - if she would only hold up her finger!


But the place was accepted, and with broken-hearted sobbings Ruby prepared herself for her departure from aunt Pipkin's roof.
"I hope you like your place, Ruby," Mrs. Hurtle said on the afternoon of her last day.
"Indeed then I don't like it at all. They're the ugliest children you ever see, Mrs. Hurtle."
"Ugly children must be minded as well as pretty ones."
"And the mother of 'em is as cross as cross."
"It's your own fault, Ruby; isn't it?"
"I don't know as I've done anything out of the way."

But the place was accepted, and with broken-hearted sobbings Ruby prepared to depart from aunt Pipkin's roof.
"I hope you like your new place, Ruby," Mrs. Hurtle said on her last day.
"Indeed I don't like it at all. They're the ugliest children you ever see, Mrs. Hurtle."
"Ugly children must be minded as well as pretty ones."
"And their mother is as cross as cross."
"It's your own fault, Ruby.


"Don't you think it's anything out of the way to be engaged to a young man and then to throw him over? All this has come because you wouldn't keep your word to Mr. Crumb. Only for that your grandfather wouldn't have turned you out of his house."
"He didn't turn me out. I ran away. And it wasn't along of John Crumb, but because grandfather hauled me about by the hair of my head."

All this has come because you wouldn't keep your word to Mr. Crumb. But for that, your grandfather wouldn't have turned you out of his house."
"He didn't turn me out. I ran away. And it wasn't along of John Crumb, but because grandfather hauled me about by my hair."


"But he was angry with you about Mr. Crumb. When a young woman becomes engaged to a young man, she ought not to go back from her word." No doubt Mrs. Hurtle, when preaching this doctrine, thought that the same law might be laid down with propriety for the conduct of young men. "Of course you have brought trouble on yourself. I am sorry that you don't like the place. I'm afraid you must go to it now."
"I am agoing,--I suppose," said Ruby, probably feeling that if she could but bring herself to condescend so far there might yet be open for her a way of escape.
"I shall write and tell Mr. Crumb where you are placed."

"But he was angry about Mr. Crumb. When a young woman becomes engaged to a young man, she ought not to go back from her word. Of course you have brought trouble on yourself. I am sorry that you don't like the place. I'm afraid you must go to it now."
"I am agoing - I suppose," said Ruby.
"I shall write and tell Mr. Crumb where you are."


"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, don't. What should you write to him for? It ain't nothing to him."
"I told him I'd let him know if any steps were taken."
"You can forget that, Mrs. Hurtle. Pray don't write. I don't want him to know as I'm in service."
"I must keep my promise. Why shouldn't he know? I don't suppose you care much now what he hears about you."

"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, don't. What should you write to him for? It ain't nothing to him. I don't want him to know as I'm in service.


"Yes I do. I wasn't never in service before, and I don't want him to know."
"What harm can it do you?"
"Well, I don't want him to know. It is such a come down, Mrs. Hurtle."
"There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. What you have to be ashamed of is jilting him. It was a bad thing to do;--wasn't it, Ruby?"
"I didn't mean nothing bad, Mrs. Hurtle; only why couldn't he say what he had to say himself, instead of bringing another to say it for him? What would you feel, Mrs. Hurtle, if a man was to come and say it all out of another man's mouth?"

It's such a come-down."
"There is nothing to be ashamed of in that. What you have to be ashamed of is jilting him. It was a bad thing to do; wasn't it, Ruby?"
"I didn't mean nothing bad, Mrs. Hurtle; only why couldn't he say what he had to say himself, instead of bringing another to say it for him? What would you feel, Mrs. Hurtle, if a man was to come and say it all out of another man's mouth?"


"I don't think I should much care if the thing was well said at last. You know he meant it."
"Yes;--I did know that."
"And you know he means it now?"
"I'm not so sure about that. He's gone back to Bungay, and he isn't no good at writing letters no more than at speaking. Oh,--he'll go and get somebody else now."
"Of course he will if he hears nothing about you. I think I'd better tell him. I know what would happen."

"I don't think I should much care if the thing was well said at last. You know he meant it."
"Yes; I did know that."
"And you know he means it now?"
"I'm not so sure. He's gone back to Bungay. He'll go and get somebody else now."
"Of course he will if he hears nothing about you. I think I'd better tell him. I know what would happen."


"What would happen, Mrs. Hurtle?"
"He'd be up in town again in half a jiffey to see what sort of a place you'd got. Now, Ruby, I'll tell you what I'll do, if you'll say the word. I'll have him up here at once and you shan't go to Mrs. Buggins'." Ruby dropped her hands and stood still, staring at Mrs. Hurtle. "I will. But if he comes you mustn't behave this time as you did before."
"But I'm to go to Mrs. Buggins' to-morrow."
"We'll send to Mrs. Buggins and tell her to get somebody else. You're breaking your heart about going there;--are you not?"

"What would happen, Mrs. Hurtle?"
"He'd be up in town again in half a jiffy to see what sort of a place you'd got. Now, Ruby, I'll tell you what I'll do, if you'll say the word. I'll have him up here at once and you shan't go to Mrs. Buggins." Ruby stood still, staring at Mrs. Hurtle. "But if he comes you mustn't behave this time as you did before."
"But I'm to go to Mrs. Buggins tomorrow."
"We'll send to her and tell her to get somebody else.


"I don't like it, Mrs. Hurtle."
"And this man will make you mistress of his house. You say he isn't good at speaking; but I tell you I never came across an honester man in the whole course of my life, or one who I think would treat a woman better. What's the use of a glib tongue if there isn't a heart with it? What's the use of a lot of tinsel and lacker, if the real metal isn't there? Sir Felix Carbury could talk, I dare say, but you don't think now he was a very fine fellow."
"He was so beautiful, Mrs. Hurtle!"
"But he hadn't the spirit of a mouse in his bosom. Well, Ruby, you have one more choice left you. Shall it be John Crumb or Mrs. Buggins?"

And this man will make you mistress of his house. You say he isn't good at speaking; but I never came across an honester man in my whole life, or one who I think would treat a woman better. What's the use of a glib tongue if there isn't a heart with it? Sir Felix Carbury could talk, I dare say, but you don't think now he was a very fine fellow."
"He was so beautiful, Mrs. Hurtle!"
"But he hadn't the spirit of a mouse. Well, Ruby, you choose. Shall it be John Crumb or Mrs. Buggins?"


"He wouldn't come, Mrs. Hurtle."
"Leave that to me, Ruby. May I bring him if I can?" Then Ruby in a very low whisper told Mrs. Hurtle, that if she thought proper she might bring John Crumb back again. "And there shall be no more nonsense?"
"No," whispered Ruby.
On that same night a letter was sent to Mrs. Buggins, which Mrs. Hurtle also composed, informing that lady that unforeseen circumstances prevented Ruby Ruggles from keeping the engagement she had made; to which a verbal answer was returned that Ruby Ruggles was an impudent hussey. And then Mrs. Hurtle in her own name wrote a short note to Mr. John Crumb.
DEAR MR. CRUMB,
If you will come back to London I think you will find Miss Ruby Ruggles all that you desire.

Then Ruby in a very low whisper told Mrs. Hurtle that she might bring John Crumb back again.
"And there shall be no more nonsense?"
"No," whispered Ruby.
On that same night a letter was sent to Mrs. Buggins, which Mrs. Hurtle composed. And then Mrs. Hurtle in her own name wrote a short note to Mr. John Crumb.
Dear Mr. Crumb,
If you will come back to London I think you will find Miss Ruby Ruggles all that you desire.


Yours faithfully,
WINIFRID HURTLE.
"She's had a deal more done for her than I ever knew to be done for young women in my time," said Mrs. Pipkin, "and I'm not at all so sure that she has deserved it."
"John Crumb will think she has."
"John Crumb's a fool;--and as to Ruby; well, I haven't got no patience with girls like them. Yes; it is for the best; and as for you, Mrs. Hurtle, there's no words to say how good you've been. I hope, Mrs. Hurtle, you ain't thinking of going away because this is all done."

Yours faithfully,
Winifred Hurtle.
"She's had a deal more done for her than she deserves," said Mrs. Pipkin. "I haven't got no patience with girls like them. Yes; it is for the best; and there's no words to say how good you've been. I hope, Mrs. Hurtle, you ain't thinking of going away because this is all done."


On the following morning there came a telegram from Felix. He was to be expected at Beccles on that afternoon by a certain train; and Roger, at Lady Carbury's request, undertook to send a carriage to the station for him. This was done, but Felix did not arrive. There was still another train by which he might come so as to be just in time for dinner if dinner were postponed for half an hour. Lady Carbury with a tender look, almost without speaking a word, appealed to her cousin on behalf of her son. He knit his brows, as he always did, involuntarily, when displeased; but he assented. Then the carriage had to be sent again. Now carriages and carriage-horses were not numerous at Carbury. The squire kept a waggonnette and a pair of horses which, when not wanted for house use, were employed about the farm. He himself would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage to be brought by some cheap conveyance.

On the following morning there came a telegram from Felix: he would be at Beccles that afternoon by a certain train. Roger sent a carriage to the station for him, but Felix did not arrive. There was another train by which he might come so as to be just in time for dinner; and Roger, with knitted brows, sent the carriage again.
Now carriages and carriage-horses were not numerous at Carbury. Roger kept a waggonnette and a pair of horses which were used about the farm. He himself would walk home from the train, leaving the luggage to be brought by some cheap conveyance.


He had already sent the carriage once on this day,--and now sent it again, Lady Carbury having said a word which showed that she hoped that this would be done. But he did it with deep displeasure. To the mother her son was Sir Felix, the baronet, entitled to special consideration because of his position and rank,--because also of his intention to marry the great heiress of the day. To Roger Carbury, Felix was a vicious young man, peculiarly antipathetic to himself, to whom no respect whatever was due. Nevertheless the dinner was put off, and the waggonnette was sent. But the waggonnette again came back empty. That evening was spent by Roger, Lady Carbury, and Henrietta, in very much gloom.

He sent the carriage a second time with deep displeasure. He felt Felix was not entitled to any special consideration. Nevertheless the dinner was put off, and the waggonnette was sent - but it again came back empty. That evening was spent by Roger, Lady Carbury, and Henrietta in gloom.