One thing only was clear to him. He must realise his possessions. With this view he wrote both to Miles Grendall and to Melmotte. To the former he said he was going out of town,--probably for some time, and he must really ask for a cheque for the amount due. He went on to remark that he could hardly suppose that a nephew of the Duke of Albury was unable to pay debts of honour to the amount of 200;--but that if such was the case he would have no alternative but to apply to the Duke himself. The reader need hardly be told that to this letter Mr. Grendall vouchsafed no answer whatever. In his letter to Mr. Melmotte he confined himself to one matter of business in hand. He made no allusion whatever to Marie, or to the great man's anger, or to his seat at the board. He simply reminded Mr. Melmotte that there was a sum of 600 still due to him, and requested that a cheque might be sent to him for that amount. Melmotte's answer to this was not altogether unsatisfactory, though it was not exactly what Sir Felix had wished.

One thing was clear to him. He must get his money. With this view he wrote both to Miles Grendall and to Melmotte - making no mention of Marie, but merely asking for the amounts due to him. Mr. Grendall sent him no answer whatever. And Melmotte's answer was not exactly what Sir Felix had wished.


A clerk from Mr. Melmotte's office called at the house in Welbeck Street, and handed to Felix railway scrip in the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway to the amount of the sum claimed,--insisting on a full receipt for the money before he parted with the scrip. The clerk went on to explain, on behalf of his employer, that the money had been left in Mr. Melmotte's hands for the purpose of buying these shares. Sir Felix, who was glad to get anything, signed the receipt and took the scrip. This took place on the day after the balloting at Westminster, when the result was not yet known,--and when the shares in the railway were very low indeed. Sir Felix had asked as to the value of the shares at the time. The clerk professed himself unable to quote the price,--but there were the shares if Sir Felix liked to take them. Of course he took them;--and hurrying off into the City found that they might perhaps be worth about half the money due to him. The broker to whom he showed them could not quite answer for anything. Yes;--the scrip had been very high; but there was a panic. They might recover,--or, more probably, they might go to nothing.

A clerk from Mr. Melmotte's office called at the house, and handed Felix a scrip in the Railway to the amount claimed, explaining that the money had been left in Mr. Melmotte's hands for the purpose of buying these shares. Sir Felix, who was glad to get anything, signed a receipt and took the scrip.
This took place on the day after the balloting at Westminster, when the result was not yet known, and the shares in the railway were very low indeed. When Sir Felix hurried off into the City he found that they might be worth about half the money due to him. The broker said they might recover; or, more probably, they might go to nothing.


Sir Felix cursed the Great Financier aloud, and left the scrip for sale. That was the first time that he had been out of the house before dark since his little accident.


But he was chiefly tormented in these days by the want of amusement. He had so spent his life hitherto that he did not know how to get through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never read. Thinking was altogether beyond him. And he had never done a day's work in his life. He could lie in bed. He could eat and drink. He could smoke and sit idle. He could play cards; and could amuse himself with women,--the lower the culture of the women, the better the amusement. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him.

But he was chiefly tormented in these days by the lack of amusement. He did not know how to get through a day in which no excitement was provided for him. He never read. Thinking was beyond him. And he had never done a day's work in his life. He could lie in bed; he could eat and drink, smoke and sit idle. He could play cards; and could amuse himself with women. Beyond these things the world had nothing for him.


Therefore he again took himself to the pursuit of Ruby Ruggles.


Poor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's house. She had been wrathful and had stormed, swearing that she would be free to come and go as she pleased. Free to go, Mrs. Pipkin told her that she was;--but not free to return if she went out otherwise than as she, Mrs. Pipkin, chose. "Am I to be a slave?" Ruby asked, and almost upset the perambulator which she had just dragged in at the hall door. Then Mrs. Hurtle had taken upon herself to talk to her, and poor Ruby had been quelled by the superior strength of the American lady. But she was very unhappy, finding that it did not suit her to be nursemaid to her aunt. After all John Crumb couldn't have cared for her a bit, or he would have come to look after her. While she was in this condition Sir Felix came to Mrs. Pipkin's house, and asked for her at the door. It happened that Mrs. Pipkin herself had opened the door,--and, in her fright and dismay at the presence of so pernicious a young man in her own passage, had denied that Ruby was in the house.

Poor Ruby had endured a very painful incarceration at her aunt's house. She had been angry and had stormed, swearing that she would be free to come and go as she pleased. Mrs. Pipkin told her that she was free to go, but that if she did, she was not free to return. Then Mrs. Hurtle talked to her, and poor Ruby was quelled by the American lady's superior strength. But she was very unhappy. John Crumb couldn't have cared for her a bit after all, or he would have come to look after her.
At this point Sir Felix came to Mrs. Pipkin's house, and asked for Ruby at the door. Mrs. Pipkin denied that she was there.


But Ruby had heard her lover's voice, and had rushed up and thrown herself into his arms. Then there had been a great scene. Ruby had sworn that she didn't care for her aunt, didn't care for her grandfather, or for Mrs. Hurtle, or for John Crumb,--or for any person or anything. She cared only for her lover. Then Mrs. Hurtle had asked the young man his intentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby? Sir Felix had said that he "supposed he might as well some day." "There," said Ruby, "there!"--shouting in triumph as though an offer had been made to her with the completest ceremony of which such an event admits. Mrs. Pipkin had been very weak.

But Ruby heard her lover's voice, and rushed up and threw herself into his arms. She swore that she didn't care for her aunt, or for John Crumb, or for anything: only for her lover.
Mrs. Hurtle asked the young man his intentions. Did he mean to marry Ruby? Sir Felix said that he "supposed he might as well some day."
"There," shouted Ruby in triumph, "there!"
Mrs. Pipkin weak


Instead of calling in the assistance of her strong-minded lodger, she had allowed the lovers to remain together for half-an-hour in the dining-room. I do not know that Sir Felix in any way repeated his promise during that time, but Ruby was probably too blessed with the word that had been spoken to ask for such renewal. "There must be an end of this," said Mrs. Pipkin, coming in when the half-hour was over. Then Sir Felix had gone, promising to come again on the following evening. "You must not come here, Sir Felix," said Mrs. Pipkin, "unless you puts it in writing." To this, of course, Sir Felix made no answer. As he went home he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure. Perhaps the best thing he could do when he had realised the money for the shares would be to take Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would last for three or four months,--and three or four months ahead was almost an eternity.

ly allowed the lovers to remain together for half-an-hour in the dining-room; but when the half-hour was over, she said, "There must be an end of this. You must not come here, Sir Felix, unless you puts your intentions in writing."
To this, of course, Sir Felix made no answer. As he went home he congratulated himself on the success of his adventure. Perhaps when he had realised the money for the shares he would take Ruby for a tour abroad. The money would last for three or four months; which seemed almost an eternity.


That afternoon before dinner he found his sister alone in the drawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing the distressing story of Paul Montague's love, and had not seen Hetta since. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words,--thinking perhaps of Paul's poverty as declared by her mother, and of the ages which might have to wear themselves out before she could become his wife; but still tinting all her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been declared to her. She could not but be happy if he really loved her. And she,--as she had told him that she loved him,--would be true to him through everything! In her present mood she could not speak of herself to her brother, but she took the opportunity of making good the promise which Marie Melmotte had extracted from her. She gave him some short account of the party, and told him that she had talked with Marie. "I promised to give you a message," she said.
"It's all of no use now," said Felix.

Before dinner he found his sister alone in the drawing-room. Lady Carbury had gone to her own room after hearing the distressing story of Paul Montague's love. Hetta was melancholy, thinking of her mother's hard words; yet tinting her thoughts with a rosy hue because of the love which had been declared to her.
She gave Felix a short account of the party, and told him that she had talked with Marie. "I promised to give you a message."
"It's all of no use now," said Felix.


"But I must tell you what she said. I think, you know, that she really loves you."
"But what's the good of it? A man can't marry a girl when all the policemen in the country are dodging her."
"She wants you to let her know what,--what you intend to do. If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her."
"How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a letter."
"Shall I write to her;--or shall I see her?"

"But I must tell you what she said. I think that she really loves you. She wants you to let her know what you intend to do. If you mean to give her up, I think you should tell her."
"How can I tell her? I don't suppose they would let her receive a letter."
"Shall I write to her - or see her?"


"Just as you like. I don't care."
"Felix, you are very heartless."
"I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men;--or for the matter of that, worse than a great many women either. You all of you here put me up to marry her."
"I never put you up to it."
"Mother did. And now because it did not go off all serene, I am to hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much about her."
"Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!"

"Just as you like. I don't care."
"Felix, you are very heartless."
"I don't suppose I'm much worse than other men. All of you here put me up to marry her."
"I never put you up to it."
"Mother did. And now because it did not go off, I am to hear nothing but reproaches. Of course I never cared so very much about her."
"Oh, Felix, that is so shocking!"


"Awfully shocking I dare say. You think I am as black as the very mischief, and that sugar wouldn't melt in other men's mouths. Other men are just as bad as I am,--and a good deal worse too. You believe that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague." Hetta blushed, but said nothing. She was not yet in a condition to boast of her lover before her brother, but she did, in very truth, believe that but few young men were as true-hearted as Paul Montague. "I suppose you'd be surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American widow living at Islington."
"Mr. Montague--engaged--to marry--an American widow! I don't believe it."

"I dare say. Other men are just as bad as I am - and a good deal worse too. You believe that there is nobody on earth like Paul Montague." Hetta blushed, but said nothing. "I suppose you'd be surprised to hear that Master Paul is engaged to marry an American widow living at Islington."
"Mr. Montague - engaged - to an American widow! I don't believe it."


"You'd better believe it if it's any concern of yours, for it's true. And it's true too that he travelled about with her for ever so long in the United States, and that he had her down with him at the hotel at Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it."
"I don't believe it," repeated Hetta, feeling that to say even as much as that was some relief to her. It could not be true. It was impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his mouth as that. Though the words astounded her, though she felt faint, almost as though she would fall in a swoon, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke,--or perhaps some trick to divide her from the man she loved. "Felix, how dare you say things so wicked as that to me?"

"You'd better believe it, for it's true. He travelled about with her for ever so long in the United States, and he had her down with him at the hotel at Lowestoft about a fortnight ago. There's no mistake about it."
"I don't believe it," repeated Hetta. It could not be true. It was impossible that the man should have come to her with such a lie in his mouth as that. Though she felt faint, yet in her heart of hearts she did not believe it. Surely it was some horrid joke, or trick. "Felix, how dare you say such wicked things to me?"


"What is there wicked in it? If you have been fool enough to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and she is lodging with one Mrs. Pipkin in Islington. I know the house, and could take you there to-morrow, and show you the woman. There," said he, "that's where she is;"--and he wrote Mrs. Hurtle's name down on a scrap of paper.
"It is not true," said Hetta, rising from her seat, and standing upright. "I am engaged to Mr. Montague, and I am sure he would not treat me in that way."
"Then, by heaven, he shall answer it to me," said Felix, jumping up. "If he has done that, it is time that I should interfere. As true as I stand here, he is engaged to marry a woman called Mrs. Hurtle whom he constantly visits at that place in Islington."

"Wicked? If you have been fool enough to become fond of the man, it is only right you should be told. He is engaged to marry Mrs. Hurtle, and she is lodging in Islington. There," said he, "that's where she is;" and he wrote Mrs. Hurtle's name and address down on a scrap of paper.
"It is not true," said Hetta, rising from her seat. "I am engaged to Mr. Montague, and I am sure he would not treat me in that way."


"I do not believe it," said Hetta, repeating the only defence for her lover which was applicable at the moment.
"By George, this is beyond a joke. Will you believe it if Roger Carbury says it's true? I know you'd believe anything fast enough against me, if he told you."
"Roger Carbury will not say so?"
"Have you the courage to ask him? I say he will say so. He knows all about it,--and has seen the woman."
"How can you know? Has Roger told you?"

"Will you believe it if Roger Carbury says it's true?"
"Roger Carbury will not say so."
"He will. He knows all about it, and has seen the woman.


"I do know, and that's enough. I will make this square with Master Paul. By heaven, yes! He shall answer to me. But my mother must manage you. She will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her."

By heaven! Master Paul shall answer to me. But my mother will not scruple to ask Roger, and she will believe what Roger tells her."


"I do not believe a word of it," said Hetta, leaving the room. But when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some foundation for such a tale. Why should Felix have referred to Roger Carbury? And she did feel that there was something in her brother's manner which forbade her to reject the whole story as being altogether baseless. So she sat upon her bed and cried, and thought of all the tales she had heard of faithless lovers. And yet why should the man have come to her, not only with soft words of love, but asking her hand in marriage, if it really were true that he was in daily communication with another woman whom he had promised to make his wife?

"I do not believe a word of it," said Hetta, leaving the room. But when she was alone she was very wretched. There must be some foundation for such a tale. She sat upon her bed and cried. Yet why should the man have come to her, asking her hand in marriage, if the tale were really true?


Nothing on the subject was said at dinner. Hetta with difficulty to herself sat at the table, and did not speak. Lady Carbury and her son were nearly as silent. Soon after dinner Felix slunk away to some music hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles. Then Lady Carbury, who had now been told as much as her son knew, again attacked her daughter. Very much of the story Felix had learned from Ruby. Ruby had of course learned that Paul was engaged to Mrs. Hurtle. Mrs. Hurtle had at once declared the fact to Mrs. Pipkin, and Mrs. Pipkin had been proud of the position of her lodger. Ruby had herself seen Paul Montague at the house, and had known that he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft. And it had also become known to the two women, the aunt and her niece, that Mrs. Hurtle had seen Roger Carbury on the sands at Lowestoft.

At dinner all sat silent. Soon afterwards Felix slunk away to some music hall or theatre in quest probably of some other Ruby Ruggles.
Then Lady Carbury again attacked her daughter. Felix had told her what he had learned from Ruby, who had seen Paul Montague at the house, and knew that he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to Lowestoft. Mrs. Pipkin had said they were engaged.


Thus the whole story with most of its details,--not quite with all,--had come round to Lady Carbury's ears. "What he has told you, my dear, is true. Much as I disapprove of Mr. Montague, you do not suppose that I would deceive you."
"How can he know, mamma?"
"He does know. I cannot explain to you how. He has been at the same house."
"Has he seen her?"
"I do not know that he has, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I write to him you will believe what he says?"

"What Felix has told you, my dear, is true. He has been to the house."
"Has he seen her?"
"I do not know, but Roger Carbury has seen her. If I write to him will you believe what he says?"


"Don't do that, mamma. Don't write to him."
"But I shall. Why should I not write if he can tell me? If this other man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? Of course Felix is not steady. If it came only from him you might not credit it. And he has not seen her. If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true,--tells me that he knows the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I suppose you will be contented."
"Contented, mamma!"

"Don't write to him, mamma."
"Why not? If this other man is a villain am I not bound to protect you? If your cousin Roger tells you that it is true - that the man is engaged to marry this woman, then I suppose you will be contented."
"Contented, mamma!


"Satisfied that what we tell you is true."
"I shall never be contented again. If that is true, I will never believe anything. It can't be true. I suppose there is something, but it can't be that."


The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though it pained her to see the agony which her daughter suffered. But she had no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still thought that if Roger would persevere he might succeed. On that very night before she went to bed she wrote to Roger, and told him the whole story. "If," she said, "you know that there is such a person as Mrs. Hurtle, and if you know also that Mr. Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course you will tell me." Then she declared her own wishes, thinking that by doing so she could induce Roger Carbury to give such real assistance in this matter that Paul Montague would certainly be driven away. Who could feel so much interest in doing this as Roger, or who be so closely acquainted with all the circumstances of Montague's life? "You know," she said, "what my wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr. Montague's interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is at the present moment entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us,--and also yourself."

The story was not altogether displeasing to Lady Carbury, though her daughter's agony pained her. But she had no wish that Paul Montague should be her son-in-law, and she still thought that Roger might succeed. That night before she went to bed she wrote to him.
"If," she said, "you know that there is such a person as Mrs. Hurtle, and that Mr. Montague has promised to make her his wife, of course you will tell me. You know what my wishes are about Hetta, and how utterly opposed I am to Mr. Montague's interference. If it is true, as Felix says, that he is entangled with another woman, he is guilty of gross insolence; and if you know all the circumstances you can surely protect us - and also yourself."


Melmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that day,--good news as he would regard it, even though, when told to him it should be accompanied by all the extraneous additions with which Marie had communicated her purpose to Madame Melmotte. It was nothing to him what the girl thought of the marriage,--if the marriage could now be brought about. He, too, had cause for vexation, if not for anger. If Marie had consented a fortnight since he might have so hurried affairs that Lord Nidderdale might by this time have been secured. Now there might be,--must be, doubt, through the folly of his girl and the villany of Sir Felix Carbury. Were he once the father-in-law of the eldest son of a marquis, he thought he might almost be safe. Even though something might be all but proved against him,--which might come to certain proof in less august circumstances,--matters would hardly be pressed against a Member for Westminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the Marquis of Auld Reekie! So many persons would then be concerned! Of course his vexation with Marie had been great. Of course his wrath against Sir Felix was unbounded.

Melmotte did not return home in time to hear the good news that day. If he were the father-in-law of the eldest son of a marquis, he thought he might almost be safe: charges would hardly be pressed against a Member for Westminster whose daughter was married to the heir of the Marquis of Auld Reekie!


The seat for Westminster was his. He was to be seen to occupy it before all the world on this very day. But he had not as yet heard that his daughter had yielded in reference to Lord Nidderdale.

But he had not yet heard that his daughter had yielded in reference to Lord Nidderdale.


There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to the manner in which Melmotte should take his seat. When he was put forward as the Conservative candidate for the borough a good deal of fuss had been made with him by certain leading politicians. It had been the manifest intention of the party that his return, if he were returned, should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph, and be made much of through the length and the breadth of the land. He was returned,--but the trumpets had not as yet been sounded loudly. On a sudden, within the space of forty-eight hours, the party had become ashamed of their man. And, now, who was to introduce him to the House? But with this feeling of shame on one side, there was already springing up an idea among another class that Melmotte might become as it were a Conservative tribune of the people,--that he might be the realization of that hitherto hazy mixture of Radicalism and old-fogyism, of which we have lately heard from a political master, whose eloquence has been employed in teaching us that progress can only be expected from those whose declared purpose is to stand still. The new farthing newspaper, "The Mob," was already putting Melmotte forward as a political hero, preaching with reference to his commercial transactions the grand doctrine that magnitude in affairs is a valid defence for certain irregularities. A Napoleon, though he may exterminate tribes in carrying out his projects, cannot be judged by the same law as a young lieutenant who may be punished for cruelty to a few negroes. "The Mob" thought that a good deal should be overlooked in a Melmotte, and that the philanthropy of his great designs should be allowed to cover a multitude of sins.

There was considerable uneasiness felt in some circles as to how Melmotte should take his seat. When he was put forward as the Conservative candidate, the party had intended that his election - if he were elected - should be hailed as a great Conservative triumph. He was elected, but the trumpets had not yet sounded. The party had suddenly become ashamed of their man.
But there was already springing up an idea among another class that Melmotte might become a Conservative man of the people. The new farthing newspaper, The Mob, was putting Melmotte forward as a political hero, calling him a Napoleon of the business world who might be forgiven certain irregularities. The Mob thought that a good deal should be overlooked in a Melmotte, and that the philanthropy of his great designs should be allowed to cover his sins.


I do not know that the theory was ever so plainly put forward as it was done by the ingenious and courageous writer in "The Mob;" but in practice it has commanded the assent of many intelligent minds.


Mr. Melmotte, therefore, though he was not where he had been before that wretched Squercum had set afloat the rumours as to the purchase of Pickering, was able to hold his head much higher than on the unfortunate night of the great banquet. He had replied to the letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile, by a note written in the ordinary way in the office, and only signed by himself. In this he merely said that he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of Pickering. Slow and Bideawhile were of course anxious that things should be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery. To make themselves clear in the matter, and their client,--and if possible to take some wind out of the sails of the odious Squercum;--this would suit them best. They were prone to hope that for his own sake Melmotte would raise the money. If it were raised there would be no reason why that note purporting to have been signed by Dolly Longestaffe should ever leave their office. They still protested their belief that it did bear Dolly's signature. They had various excuses for themselves.

Mr. Melmotte, therefore, was able to hold his head higher than on the unfortunate night of the banquet. He had replied to the letter from Messrs. Slow and Bideawhile with a note, in which he merely said that he would lose no time in settling matters as to the purchase of Pickering. Slow and Bideawhile were of course anxious that things should be settled. They wanted no prosecution for forgery; and they hoped to take some wind out of the sails of the odious Squercum. If Melmotte raised the money, there was no reason why that note purporting to have been signed by Dolly Longestaffe should ever leave their office. They still protested their belief that it did bear Dolly's signature.


It would have been useless for them to summon Dolly to their office, as they knew from long experience that Dolly would not come. The very letter written by themselves,--as a suggestion,--and given to Dolly's father, had come back to them with Dolly's ordinary signature, sent to them,--as they believed,--with other papers by Dolly's father. What justification could be clearer? But still the money had not been paid. That was the fault of Longestaffe senior. But if the money could be paid, that would set everything right. Squercum evidently thought that the money would not be paid, and was ceaseless in his intercourse with Bideawhile's people. He charged Slow and Bideawhile with having delivered up the title-deeds on the authority of a mere note, and that a note with a forged signature. He demanded that the note should be impounded. On the receipt by Mr. Bideawhile of Melmotte's rather curt reply Mr. Squercum was informed that Mr. Melmotte had promised to pay the money at once, but that a day or two must be allowed.

But still the money had not been paid. Squercum charged Slow and Bideawhile with having delivered up the title-deeds on the authority of a mere note with a forged signature. He demanded that the note should be impounded. He was informed that Mr. Melmotte had promised to pay the money at once, but that a day or two must be allowed.


Mr. Squercum replied that on his client's behalf he should open the matter before the Lord Mayor.


But in this way two or three days had passed without any renewal of the accusation before the public, and Melmotte had in a certain degree recovered his position. The Beauclerks and the Luptons disliked and feared him as much as ever, but they did not quite dare to be so loud and confident in condemnation as they had been. It was pretty well known that Mr. Longestaffe had not received his money,--and that was a condition of things tending greatly to shake the credit of a man living after Melmotte's fashion. But there was no crime in that. No forgery was implied by the publication of any statement to that effect. The Longestaffes, father and son, might probably have been very foolish. Whoever expected anything but folly from either? And Slow and Bideawhile might have been very remiss in their duty. It was astonishing, some people said, what things attorneys would do in these days! But they who had expected to see Melmotte behind the bars of a prison before this, and had regulated their conduct accordingly, now imagined that they had been deceived.

In this way two or three days had passed without any renewal of the accusation, and Melmotte had partly recovered his position. It was pretty well known that Mr. Longestaffe had not received his money; but there was no crime in that. The Longestaffes, father and son, had probably been very foolish. And Slow and Bideawhile might have been remiss in their duty. But those who had expected to see Melmotte behind bars by now felt that they had been deceived.


Had the Westminster triumph been altogether a triumph it would have become the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to express to Melmotte the pleasure he would have in introducing his new political ally to the House. In such case Melmotte himself would have been walked up the chamber with a pleasurable ovation and the thing would have been done without trouble to him. But now this was not the position of affairs. Though the matter was debated at the Carlton, no such popular Conservative offered his services. "I don't think we ought to throw him over," Mr. Beauclerk said. Sir Orlando Drought, quite a leading Conservative, suggested that as Lord Nidderdale was very intimate with Mr. Melmotte he might do it. But Nidderdale was not the man for such a performance. He was a very good fellow and everybody liked him. He belonged to the House because his father had territorial influence in a Scotch county;--but he never did anything there, and his selection for such a duty would be a declaration to the world that nobody else would do it. "It wouldn't hurt you, Lupton," said Mr. Beauclerk.

It would normally have been the pleasant duty of some popular Conservative to introduce Melmotte to the House. But no popular Conservative offered his services. It was suggested that Lord Nidderdale might do it; but though he was a good fellow, he never did anything in Parliament.


"Not at all," said Lupton; "but I also, like Nidderdale, am a young man and of no use,--and a great deal too bashful." Melmotte, who knew but little about it, went down to the House at four o'clock, somewhat cowed by want of companionship, but carrying out his resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom fears,--that he would lose nothing by want of personal pluck. He knew that he was a Member, and concluded that if he presented himself he would be able to make his way in and assume his right. But here again fortune befriended him. The very leader of the party, the very founder of that new doctrine of which it was thought that Melmotte might become an apostle and an expounder,--who, as the reader may remember, had undertaken to be present at the banquet when his colleagues were dismayed and untrue to him, and who kept his promise and sat there almost in solitude,--he happened to be entering the House, as his late host was claiming from the door-keeper the fruition of his privilege. "You had better let me accompany you," said the Conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his heart. And so Mr. Melmotte was introduced to the House by the head of his party! When this was seen many men supposed that the rumours had been proved to be altogether false. Was not this a guarantee sufficient to guarantee any man's respectability?

Melmotte, who knew little about it, went down to the House at four o'clock, carrying out his resolution that he would be stopped by no phantom fears. He knew that he was a Member, and he would assume his right. But fortune befriended him. The very leader of the party happened to be entering the House at the same time.
"You had better let me accompany you," said the Conservative leader, with something of chivalry in his heart. And so Mr. Melmotte was introduced to the House by the head of his party! Was not this a guarantee of the man's respectability?


Lord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords that afternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been in a state of great doubt since the day of the dinner party. He was aware of the ruin that would be incurred by a marriage with Melmotte's daughter, if the things which had been said of Melmotte should be proved to be true. But he knew also that if his son should now recede, there must be an end of the match altogether;--and he did not believe the rumours. He was fully determined that the money should be paid down before the marriage was celebrated; but if his son were to secede now, of course no money would be forthcoming. He was prepared to recommend his son to go on with the affair still a little longer. "Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it," said the father. Cure was the family lawyer of the Marquises of Auld Reekie.
"There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir," said the son.

Lord Nidderdale saw his father in the lobby of the House of Lords that afternoon and told him what had occurred. The old man had been in a state of great doubt about his son's marriage to Marie. He was aware of the ruin that would follow if the rumours about Melmotte proved to be true. But he did not believe the rumours, though he was fully determined that the money should be paid down before the marriage took place.
"Old Cure tells me he doesn't believe a word of it," said the father. Cure was the family lawyer.
"There's some hitch about Dolly Longestaffe's money, sir," said the son.


"What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't always easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred thousand together. I know I've never found it easy to get a thousand. If he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe to make up the girl's money, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns. There's no harm done till the parson has said the word."
"You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred;--could you, sir?" suggested the son.
"No, I couldn't," replied the father with a very determined aspect.
"I'm awfully hard up."

"What's that to us if he has our money ready? I suppose it isn't easy even for a man like that to get a couple of hundred thousand together. If he has borrowed a trifle from Longestaffe to make up the girl's money, I shan't complain. You stand to your guns."
"You couldn't let me have a couple of hundred, could you, sir?" suggested the son.
"No, I couldn't."
"I'm awfully hard up."


"So am I." Then the old man toddled into his own chamber, and after sitting there ten minutes went away home.
Lord Nidderdale also got quickly through his legislative duties and went to the Beargarden. There he found Grasslough and Miles Grendall dining together, and seated himself at the next table. They were full of news. "You've heard it, I suppose," said Miles in an awful whisper.
"Heard what?"
"I believe he doesn't know!" said Lord Grasslough. "By Jove, Nidderdale, you're in a mess like some others."

"So am I." The old man toddled away.
Lord Nidderdale went to the Beargarden, where he found Grasslough and Miles Grendall dining together, and seated himself at the next table.
"You've heard it, I suppose," said Miles in an awful whisper.
"Heard what?"
"I believe he doesn't know!" said Lord Grasslough.


"What's up now?"
"Only fancy that they shouldn't have known down at the House! Vossner has bolted!"
"Bolted!" exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping the spoon with which he was just going to eat his soup.
"Bolted," repeated Grasslough. Lord Nidderdale looked round the room and became aware of the awful expression of dismay which hung upon the features of all the dining members. "Bolted by George! He has sold all our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlbro' that's called 'Flatfleece.'"
"I know him," said Nidderdale shaking his head.

"Vossner has bolted!"
"Bolted!" exclaimed Nidderdale, dropping his spoon.
"Bolted," repeated Grasslough. Lord Nidderdale looked round the room and became aware of the awful expression of dismay worn by all the members. "He has sold all our acceptances to a fellow in Great Marlbro' called Flatfleece."
"I know him," said Nidderdale.


"I should think so," said Miles ruefully.
"A bottle of champagne!" said Nidderdale, appealing to the waiter in almost a humble voice, feeling that he wanted sustenance in this new trouble that had befallen him. The waiter, beaten almost to the ground by an awful sense of the condition of the club, whispered to him the terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of champagne in the house. "Good G----," exclaimed the unfortunate nobleman. Miles Grendall shook his head. Grasslough shook his head.
[Illustration: "Not a bottle of champagne in the house."]

"A bottle of champagne!" He appealed to the waiter in almost a humble voice. The waiter whispered the terrible announcement that there was not a bottle of champagne in the house.
"Good G___," exclaimed the unfortunate nobleman. The others shook their heads.


"It's true," said another young lord from the table on the other side. Then the waiter, still speaking with suppressed and melancholy voice, suggested that there was some port left. It was now the middle of July.
"Brandy?" suggested Nidderdale. There had been a few bottles of brandy, but they had been already consumed. "Send out and get some brandy," said Nidderdale with rapid impetuosity. But the club was so reduced in circumstances that he was obliged to take silver out of his pocket before he could get even such humble comfort as he now demanded.

"Brandy?" suggested Nidderdale. There had been a few bottles of brandy, but they had already been consumed. "Send out and get some brandy," said Nidderdale; but he had to take silver from his pocket before it could be done.


Then Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known. Herr Vossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding evening. The head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills were due. It was supposed that three or four thousand pounds were owing to tradesmen, who now professed that the credit had been given, not to Herr Vossner but to the club. And the numerous acceptances for large sums which the accommodating purveyor held from many of the members had all been sold to Mr. Flatfleece. Mr. Flatfleece had spent a considerable portion of the day at the club, and it was now suggested that he and Herr Vossner were in partnership. At this moment Dolly Longestaffe came in. Dolly had been at the club before and had heard the story,--but had gone at once to another club for his dinner when he found that there was not even a bottle of wine to be had. "Here's a go," said Dolly. "One thing atop of another!

Then Lord Grasslough told the whole story as far as it was known. Herr Vossner had not been seen since nine o'clock on the preceding evening. The head waiter had known for some weeks that heavy bills were due. And the numerous I.O.U.s written by the members had all been sold to Mr. Flatfleece.
At this moment Dolly Longestaffe came in, having heard the story.
"Here's a go," he said. "One thing atop of another!


There'll be nothing left for anybody soon. Is that brandy you're drinking, Nidderdale? There was none here when I left."
"Had to send round the corner for it, to the public."
"We shall be sending round the corner for a good many things now. Does anybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?"
"He's down in the House, as big as life," said Nidderdale. "He's all right I think."

Is that brandy you're drinking, Nidderdale? Does anybody know anything of that fellow Melmotte?"
"He's down in the House, as big as life," said Nidderdale. "He's all right, I think."


"I wish he'd pay me my money then. That fellow Flatfleece was here, and he showed me notes of mine for about 1,500! I write such a beastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But, by George, a fellow can't eat and drink 1,500 in less than six months!"
"There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly," said Lord Grasslough.
"He's paid some of your card money, perhaps," said Nidderdale.

"I wish he'd pay me my money then. That fellow Flatfleece showed me notes of mine for about 1,500! I write such a beastly hand that I never know whether I've written it or not. But, by George, a fellow can't eat and drink 1,500 in less than six months!"
"There's no knowing what you can do, Dolly," said Lord Grasslough.
"It's some of your card money, perhaps," said Nidderdale.


"I don't think he ever did. Carbury had a lot of my I. O. U.'s while that was going on, but I got the money for that from old Melmotte. How is a fellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I obliged to pay it? Everybody is writing my name! How is any fellow to stand that kind of thing? Do you think Melmotte's all right?" Nidderdale said that he did think so.

"How is a fellow to know? If any fellow writes D. Longestaffe, am I obliged to pay it? Everybody is writing my name!


"I wish he wouldn't go and write my name then. That's a sort of thing that a man should be left to do for himself. I suppose Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove, I know a worse than Vossner." With that he turned on his heels and went into the smoking-room. And, after he was gone, there was silence at the table, for it was known that Lord Nidderdale was to marry Melmotte's daughter.

I wish Melmotte wouldn't go and write my name. Vossner is a swindler; but, by Jove, I know a worse than Vossner."
With that he turned on his heels and went into the smoking-room. After he was gone, there was silence at the table, for it was known that Lord Nidderdale was to marry Melmotte's daughter.


In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the House of Commons. Melmotte had been seated on one of the back Conservative benches, and there he remained for a considerable time unnoticed and forgotten. The little emotion that had attended his entrance had passed away, and Melmotte was now no more than any one else. At first he had taken his hat off, but, as soon as he observed that the majority of members were covered, he put it on again. Then he sat motionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. He had never hitherto been even in the gallery of the House. The place was very much smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. The Speaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected, and it seemed to him that they who spoke were talking much like other people in other places. For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of a sentence that was said, nor did he try to do so. One man got up very quickly after another, some of them barely rising on their legs to say the few words that they uttered.

In the meantime a scene of a different kind was going on in the House of Commons. Melmotte had been seated on one of the back Conservative benches, and there he remained for a time unnoticed. He sat motionless for an hour, looking round him and wondering. He had never until now been even in the gallery of the House. The place was very much smaller than he had thought, and much less tremendous. The Speaker did not strike him with the awe which he had expected.
For the first hour he hardly caught the meaning of anything that was said. One man got up very quickly after another, some of them barely rising to say the few words that they uttered.


It seemed to him to be a very common-place affair,--not half so awful as those festive occasions on which he had occasionally been called upon to propose a toast or to return thanks. Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and one gentleman made a long speech. Melmotte by this time, weary of observing, had begun to listen, and words which were familiar to him reached his ears. The gentleman was proposing some little addition to a commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language the ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by being tempted to use gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied. Melmotte listened to his eloquence caring nothing about gloves, and very little about England's ruin. But in the course of the debate which followed, a question arose about the value of money, of exchange, and of the conversion of shillings into francs and dollars. About this Melmotte really did know something and he pricked up his ears. It seemed to him that a gentleman whom he knew very well in the city,--and who had maliciously stayed away from his dinner,--one Mr. Brown, who sat just before him on the same side of the House, and who was plodding wearily and slowly along with some pet fiscal theory of his own, understood nothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an opportunity for himself! Here was at his hand the means of revenging himself for the injury done him, and of showing to the world at the same time that he was not afraid of his city enemies!

It seemed to him to be a very commonplace affair.
Then suddenly the manner of the thing was changed, and one gentleman made a long speech. Melmotte listened: the gentleman was proposing some addition to a commercial treaty and was expounding in very strong language the ruinous injustice to which England was exposed by importing gloves made in a country in which no income tax was levied. Melmotte cared nothing about gloves, and very little about England's ruin. But in the course of the debate which followed, a question arose about the value of money, and of the conversion of shillings into francs and dollars. About this Melmotte really did know something, and he pricked up his ears.
It seemed to him that a gentleman, one Mr. Brown, whom he knew very well in the city - and who had maliciously stayed away from his dinner - understood nothing at all of what he was saying. Here was an opportunity for revenge - and for showing the world at the same time that he was not afraid of his city enemies!


It required some courage certainly,--this attempt that suggested itself to him of getting upon his legs a couple of hours after his first introduction to parliamentary life. But he was full of the lesson which he was now ever teaching himself. Nothing should cow him. Whatever was to be done by brazen-faced audacity he would do. It seemed to be very easy, and he saw no reason why he should not put that old fool right. He knew nothing of the forms of the House;--was more ignorant of them than an ordinary schoolboy;--but on that very account felt less trepidation than might another parliamentary novice. Mr. Brown was tedious and prolix; and Melmotte, though he thought much of his project and had almost told himself that he would do the thing, was still doubting, when, suddenly, Mr. Brown sat down. There did not seem to be any particular end to the speech, nor had Melmotte followed any general thread of argument. But a statement had been made and repeated, containing, as Melmotte thought, a fundamental error in finance; and he longed to set the matter right. At any rate he desired to show the House that Mr. Brown did not know what he was talking about,--because Mr. Brown had not come to his dinner.

It required some courage certainly; but he had determined that nothing should cow him. He saw no reason why he should not put the old fool right, although he knew nothing of the forms of the House.
Melmotte was still doubting whether to speak, when suddenly Mr. Brown sat down. There did not seem to be any particular end to the speech, nor had Melmotte followed any general thread of argument. But a statement had been made containing, as Melmotte thought, a fundamental error in finance.


When Mr. Brown was seated, nobody at once rose. The subject was not popular, and they who understood the business of the House were well aware that the occasion had simply been one on which two or three commercial gentlemen, having crazes of their own, should be allowed to ventilate them. The subject would have dropped;--but on a sudden the new member was on his legs.
Now it was probably not in the remembrance of any gentleman there that a member had got up to make a speech within two or three hours of his first entry into the House. And this gentleman was one whose recent election had been of a very peculiar kind. It had been considered by many of his supporters that his name should be withdrawn just before the ballot; by others that he would be deterred by shame from showing himself even if he were elected; and again by another party that his appearance in Parliament would be prevented by his disappearance within the walls of Newgate. But here he was, not only in his seat, but on his legs! The favourable grace, the air of courteous attention, which is always shown to a new member when he first speaks, was extended also to Melmotte. There was an excitement in the thing which made gentlemen willing to listen, and a consequent hum, almost of approbation.

Nobody at once rose. The subject would have dropped; but on a sudden the new member was on his legs.
Not in living memory had a member got up to make a speech within two or three hours of his first entry into the House. And this gentleman was one whose recent election had been of a very peculiar kind. Some had thought that his appearance in Parliament would be prevented by his disappearance within the walls of Newgate Jail. But here he was, standing up! The courteous attention which is always shown to a new member when he first speaks, was extended to Melmotte.


As soon as Melmotte was on his legs, and, looking round, found that everybody was silent with the intent of listening to him, a good deal of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. The House, which, to his thinking, had by no means been august while Mr. Brown had been toddling through his speech, now became awful. He caught the eyes of great men fixed upon him,--of men who had not seemed to him to be at all great as he had watched them a few minutes before, yawning beneath their hats. Mr. Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no doubt, prepared it,--and had perhaps made three or four such speeches every year for the last fifteen years. Melmotte had not dreamed of putting two words together. He had thought, as far as he had thought at all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might do it when seated in his chair at the Mexican Railway Board. But there was the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace,--and worse than all, the eyes of that long row of statesmen opposite to him! His position was felt by him to be dreadful. He had forgotten even the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr. Brown.

As soon as he was on his legs, and found that everybody was silent and listening, a good deal of his courage oozed out of his fingers' ends. He caught the eyes of great men fixed upon him - of men who had not seemed at all great a few minutes before, yawning beneath their hats. Mr. Brown, poor as his speech had been, had, no doubt, prepared it; while Melmotte had not dreamed of putting two words together. He had thought, as far as he had thought at all, that he could rattle off what he had to say just as he might at the Mexican Railway Board. But there was the Speaker, and those three clerks in their wigs, and the mace - and all those eyes! He forgot the very point on which he had intended to crush Mr. Brown.


But the courage of the man was too high to allow him to be altogether quelled at once. The hum was prolonged; and though he was red in the face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make a dash at the matter with the first words which would occur to him. "Mr. Brown is all wrong," he said. He had not even taken off his hat as he rose. Mr. Brown turned slowly round and looked up at him. Some one, whom he could not exactly hear, touching him behind, suggested that he should take off his hat. There was a cry of order, which of course he did not understand. "Yes, you are," said Melmotte, nodding his head, and frowning angrily at poor Mr. Brown.
[Illustration: Melmotte in Parliament.]

But his courage was too high to allow him to be quelled. Though he was red in the face, perspiring, and utterly confused, he was determined to make a dash at the matter.
"Mr. Brown is all wrong," he said. Mr. Brown turned slowly and looked up at him. Some one behind him suggested that he should take off his hat. There was a cry of order, which of course he did not understand. "Yes, you are," said Melmotte, frowning angrily at poor Mr. Brown.


"The honourable member," said the Speaker, with the most good-natured voice which he could assume, "is not perhaps as yet aware that he should not call another member by his name. He should speak of the gentleman to whom he alluded as the honourable member for Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address, not another honourable member, but the chair."
"You should take your hat off," said the good-natured gentleman behind.
In such a position how should any man understand so many and such complicated instructions at once, and at the same time remember the gist of the argument to be produced? He did take off his hat, and was of course made hotter and more confused by doing so. "What he said was all wrong," continued Melmotte; "and I should have thought a man out of the City, like Mr. Brown, ought to have known better." Then there were repeated calls of order, and a violent ebullition of laughter from both sides of the House. The man stood for a while glaring around him, summoning his own pluck for a renewal of his attack on Mr. Brown, determined that he would be appalled and put down neither by the ridicule of those around him, nor by his want of familiarity with the place; but still utterly unable to find words with which to carry on the combat. "I ought to know something about it," said Melmotte sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat.

"The honourable member," said the Speaker, with the most good-natured voice which he could assume, "is perhaps not yet aware that he should not call another member by his name. He should speak of the gentleman as the honourable member for Whitechapel. And in speaking he should address the chair."
"You should take your hat off," said the man behind.
Melmotte did take off his hat, and was made more confused by doing so.
"What he said was all wrong," he continued; "and I should have thought a man out of the City, like Mr. Brown, ought to have known better."
Then there were repeated calls of order, and a violent outburst of laughter from both sides of the House. Melmotte stood for a while glaring around him, summoning his pluck for a renewal of his attack on Mr. Brown, determined not to be put down, but still utterly unable to find words. "I ought to know something about it," he said, sitting down and hiding his indignation and his shame under his hat.


"We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does understand the subject," said the leader of the House, "and we shall be very glad to hear his remarks. The House I am sure will pardon ignorance of its rules in so young a member."
But Mr. Melmotte would not rise again. He had made a great effort, and had at any rate exhibited his courage. Though they might all say that he had not displayed much eloquence, they would be driven to admit that he had not been ashamed to show himself. He kept his seat till the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out with as stately a demeanour as he could assume.
"Well, that was plucky!" said Cohenlupe, taking his friend's arm in the lobby.

"We are sure that the honourable member for Westminster does understand the subject," said the leader of the House, "and we shall be very glad to hear his remarks."
But Mr. Melmotte would not rise again. He had at any rate shown his courage, if not much eloquence. He kept his seat till the regular stampede was made for dinner, and then walked out in as stately a way as he could.
"Well, that was plucky!" said Cohenlupe, the honourable member for Staines, taking his friend's arm in the lobby.


"I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. They wouldn't let me do it, and there's an end of it. It seems to me to be a stupid sort of a place."
"Has Longestaffe's money been paid?" said Cohenlupe opening his black eyes while he looked up into his friend's face.
"Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe, or his money either," said Melmotte, getting into his brougham; "do you leave Mr. Longestaffe and his money to me. I hope you are not such a fool as to be scared by what the other fools say. When men play such a game as you and I are concerned in, they ought to know better than to be afraid of every word that is spoken."

"I don't see any pluck in it. That old fool Brown didn't know what he was talking about, and I wanted to tell them so. It seems to be a stupid sort of place."
"Has Longestaffe's money been paid?" said Cohenlupe, looking up into his friend's face.
"Don't you trouble your head about Longestaffe," said Melmotte, getting into his carriage; "leave him and his money to me. I hope you are not scared by what fools say."


"Oh, dear; yes;" said Cohenlupe apologetically. "You don't suppose that I am afraid of anything." But at that moment Mr. Cohenlupe was meditating his own escape from the dangerous shores of England, and was trying to remember what happy country still was left in which an order from the British police would have no power to interfere with the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself.
That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now willing to marry Lord Nidderdale;--but she did not say anything as to the crossing-sweeper or the black footman, nor did she allude to Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.

"Oh, dear, no," said Cohenlupe. But he was meditating his own escape from England, and was trying to remember what happy country would not interfere with the comfort of a retired gentleman such as himself.
That evening Madame Melmotte told her husband that Marie was now willing to marry Lord Nidderdale; but she did not say anything about Marie's threat of the sort of life she would lead her husband.


A few days before that period in our story which we have now reached, Miss Longestaffe was seated in Lady Monogram's back drawing-room, discussing the terms on which the two tickets for Madame Melmotte's grand reception had been transferred to Lady Monogram,--the place on the cards for the names of the friends whom Madame Melmotte had the honour of inviting to meet the Emperor and the Princes, having been left blank; and the terms also on which Miss Longestaffe had been asked to spend two or three days with her dear friend Lady Monogram. Each lady was disposed to get as much and to give as little as possible,--in which desire the ladies carried out the ordinary practice of all parties to a bargain. It had of course been settled that Lady Monogram was to have the two tickets,--for herself and her husband,--such tickets at that moment standing very high in the market. In payment for these valuable considerations, Lady Monogram was to undertake to chaperon Miss Longestaffe at the entertainment, to take Miss Longestaffe as a visitor for three days, and to have one party at her own house during the time, so that it might be seen that Miss Longestaffe had other friends in London besides the Melmotte's on whom to depend for her London gaieties. At this moment Miss Longestaffe felt herself justified in treating the matter as though she were hardly receiving a fair equivalent. The Melmotte tickets were certainly ruling very high. They had just culminated. They fell a little soon afterwards, and at ten P.M. on the night of the entertainment were hardly worth anything. At the moment which we have now in hand, there was a rush for them. Lady Monogram had already secured the tickets.

A few days before the dinner, Miss Longestaffe was seated in Lady Monogram's back drawing-room, discussing the terms on which the two tickets for the grand reception had been given to the Monograms; and the terms also on which Miss Longestaffe had been asked to spend two or three days with her dear friend Lady Monogram. Each lady wanted to get as much and to give as little as possible. In return for the two tickets, Lady Monogram was to chaperon Miss Longestaffe at the entertainment, to take Miss Longestaffe as a visitor for three days, and to have one party at her own house during that time, so that it might be seen that Miss Longestaffe had other friends in London besides the Melmottes.
Miss Longestaffe felt that she was hardly receiving a fair price. The Melmotte tickets had reached their height, and there was a rush for them. Lady Monogram already had


They were in her desk. But, as will sometimes be the case in a bargain, the seller was complaining that as she had parted with her goods too cheap, some make-weight should be added to the stipulated price.
"As for that, my dear," said Miss Longestaffe, who, since the rise in Melmotte stock generally, had endeavoured to resume something of her old manners, "I don't see what you mean at all. You meet Lady Julia Goldsheiner everywhere, and her father-in-law is Mr. Brehgert's junior partner."
"Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr. Goldsheiner has, in some sort of way, got himself in. He hunts, and Damask says that he is one of the best shots at Hurlingham. I never met old Mr. Goldsheiner anywhere."
"I have."

 them in her desk. But the seller was complaining that as she had parted with her goods too cheap, some make-weight should be added to the price.
"As for that, my dear," said Miss Longestaffe, who had endeavoured to resume something of her old manners, "I don't see what you mean at all. You meet Lady Julia Goldsheiner everywhere, and her father-in-law is Mr. Brehgert's junior partner."
"Lady Julia is Lady Julia, my dear, and young Mr. Goldsheiner hunts, and Damask says that he is one of the best shots at Hurlingham.


"Oh, yes, I dare say. Mr. Melmotte, of course, entertains all the City people. I don't think Sir Damask would like me to ask Mr. Brehgert to dine here." Lady Monogram managed everything herself with reference to her own parties; invited all her own guests, and never troubled Sir Damask,--who, again, on his side, had his own set of friends; but she was very clever in the use which she made of her husband. There were some aspirants who really were taught to think that Sir Damask was very particular as to the guests whom he welcomed to his own house.
"May I speak to Sir Damask about it?" asked Miss Longestaffe, who was very urgent on the occasion.
"Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that. There are little things which a man and his wife must manage together without interference."

I don't think Sir Damask would like me to ask Mr. Brehgert to dine here." Sir Damask had nothing to do with the matter; but Lady Monogram was very clever in the use which she made of her husband.
"May I speak to Sir Damask about it?" asked Miss Longestaffe.
"Well, my dear, I really don't think you ought to do that."


"Nobody can ever say that I interfered in any family. But really, Julia, when you tell me that Sir Damask cannot receive Mr. Brehgert, it does sound odd. As for City people, you know as well as I do, that that kind of thing is all over now. City people are just as good as West-end people."

"But Julia, when you tell me that Sir Damask cannot receive Mr. Brehgert, it does sound odd. City people are just as good as West-end people."


"A great deal better, I dare say. I'm not arguing about that. I don't make the lines; but there they are; and one gets to know in a sort of way what they are. I don't pretend to be a bit better than my neighbours. I like to see people come here whom other people who come here will like to meet. I'm big enough to hold my own, and so is Sir Damask. But we ain't big enough to introduce new-comers. I don't suppose there's anybody in London understands it better than you do, Georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. I go pretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and I shouldn't know Mr. Brehgert if I were to see him."
"You'll meet him at the Melmottes', and, in spite of all you said once, you're glad enough to go there."

"A great deal better, I dare say. I'm not arguing about that. But we ain't big enough to introduce new-comers. I don't suppose there's anybody in London understands it better than you do, Georgiana, and therefore it's absurd my pretending to teach you. I go pretty well everywhere, as you are aware; and I shouldn't know Mr. Brehgert if I were to see him."
"You'll meet him at the Melmottes', and you're glad enough to go there."


"Quite true, my dear. I don't think that you are just the person to throw that in my teeth; but never mind that. There's the butcher round the corner in Bond Street, or the man who comes to do my hair. I don't at all think of asking them to my house. But if they were suddenly to turn out wonderful men, and go everywhere, no doubt I should be glad to have them here. That's the way we live, and you are as well used to it as I am. Mr. Brehgert at present to me is like the butcher round the corner." Lady Monogram had the tickets safe under lock and key, or I think she would hardly have said this.
"He is not a bit like a butcher," said Miss Longestaffe, blazing up in real wrath.
"I did not say that he was."

"Quite true, my dear. And there's the butcher round the corner in Bond Street, or the man who comes to do my hair. If they were suddenly to turn out wonderful men, and go everywhere, no doubt I should be glad to have them here. Mr. Brehgert at present to me is like the butcher round the corner." Lady Monogram had the tickets safe under lock and key, or I think she would hardly have said this.
"He is not a bit like a butcher," said Miss Longestaffe, blazing up in real wrath.
"I did not say that he was."


"Yes, you did; and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly say. It was meant to be unkind. It was monstrous. How would you like it if I said that Sir Damask was like a hair-dresser?"
"You can say so if you please. Sir Damask drives four in hand, rides as though he meant to break his neck every winter, is one of the best shots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as any other gentleman out. And I'm rather afraid that before he was married he used to box with all the prize-fighters, and to be a little too free behind the scenes. If that makes a man like a hair-dresser, well, there he is."
"How proud you are of his vices."

"Yes, you did; and it was the unkindest thing you could possibly say. It was monstrous. How would you like it if I said that Sir Damask was like a hair-dresser?"
"You can say so if you please. Sir Damask drives four in hand, rides as though he meant to break his neck, is one of the best shots going, and is supposed to understand a yacht as well as any other gentleman out. And I'm rather afraid that before he was married he used to box with all the prize-fighters. If that makes a man like a hair-dresser, well, there it is."
"How proud you are of his vices."


"He's very good-natured, my dear, and as he does not interfere with me, I don't interfere with him. I hope you'll do as well. I dare say Mr. Brehgert is good-natured."
"He's an excellent man of business, and is making a very large fortune."
"And has five or six grown-up children, who, no doubt, will be a comfort."
"If I don't mind them, why need you? You have none at all, and you find it lonely enough."
"Not at all lonely. I have everything that I desire. How hard you are trying to be ill-natured, Georgiana."


"Why did you say that he was a--butcher?"

"Why did you say that he was a butcher?"


"I said nothing of the kind. I didn't even say that he was like a butcher. What I did say was this,--that I don't feel inclined to risk my own reputation on the appearance of new people at my table. Of course, I go in for what you call fashion. Some people can dare to ask anybody they meet in the streets. I can't. I've my own line, and I mean to follow it. It's hard work, I can tell you; and it would be harder still if I wasn't particular. If you like Mr. Brehgert to come here on Tuesday evening, when the rooms will be full, you can ask him; but as for having him to dinner, I--won't--do--it." So the matter was at last settled.

"I said nothing of the kind. What I did say was that I don't care to risk my reputation on the appearance of new people at my table. If you like Mr. Brehgert to come here on Tuesday evening, when the rooms will be full, you can ask him; but as for having him to dinner, I won't do it."
So the matter was settled.


Miss Longestaffe did ask Mr. Brehgert for the Tuesday evening, and the two ladies were again friends.


Perhaps Lady Monogram, when she illustrated her position by an allusion to a butcher and a hair-dresser, had been unaware that Mr. Brehgert had some resemblance to the form which men in that trade are supposed to bear. Let us at least hope that she was so. He was a fat, greasy man, good-looking in a certain degree, about fifty, with hair dyed black, and beard and moustache dyed a dark purple colour. The charm of his face consisted in a pair of very bright black eyes, which were, however, set too near together in his face for the general delight of Christians. He was stout;--fat all over rather than corpulent,--and had that look of command in his face which has become common to master-butchers, probably by long intercourse with sheep and oxen. But Mr. Brehgert was considered to be a very good man of business, and was now regarded as being, in a commercial point of view, the leading member of the great financial firm of which he was the second partner. Mr. Todd's day was nearly done. He walked about constantly between Lombard Street, the Exchange, and the Bank, and talked much to merchants; he had an opinion too of his own on particular cases; but the business had almost got beyond him, and Mr. Brehgert was now supposed to be the moving spirit of the firm. He was a widower, living in a luxurious villa at Fulham with a family, not indeed grown up, as Lady Monogram had ill-naturedly said, but which would be grown up before long, varying from an eldest son of eighteen, who had just been placed at a desk in the office, to the youngest girl of twelve, who was at school at Brighton. He was a man who always asked for what he wanted; and having made up his mind that he wanted a second wife, had asked Miss Georgiana Longestaffe to fill that situation.

Perhaps Lady Monogram was aware of Mr. Brehgert's resemblance to a butcher. He was a fat, greasy man, good-looking in a certain degree, about fifty, with hair dyed black, and beard and moustache dyed a dark purple colour. The charm of his face consisted in a pair of very bright black eyes, which were, however, set rather near together. He was stout, and had that look of command in his face which is common to master-butchers.
But Mr. Brehgert was considered to be a very good man of business, and was now regarded as being the leading member of the great financial firm of which he was the second partner. Old Mr. Todd's day was nearly done, and Mr. Brehgert was now supposed to be the moving spirit of the firm. He was a widower, living in a luxurious villa at Fulham with a family varying from an eldest son of eighteen, who had just been placed at a desk in the office, to the youngest girl of twelve, who was at school at Brighton. He was a man who always asked for what he wanted; and having made up his mind that he wanted a second wife, had asked Miss Georgiana Longestaffe to fill that situation.


He had met her at the Melmottes', had entertained her, with Madame Melmotte and Marie, at Beaudesert, as he called his villa, had then proposed in the square, and two days after had received an assenting answer in Bruton Street.

He had met her at the Melmottes', had entertained her, with Madame Melmotte and Marie, at his villa, had then proposed, and two days later had received an acceptance.


Poor Miss Longestaffe! Although she had acknowledged the fact to Lady Monogram in her desire to pave the way for the reception of herself into society as a married woman, she had not as yet found courage to tell her family. The man was absolutely a Jew;--not a Jew that had been, as to whom there might possibly be a doubt whether he or his father or his grandfather had been the last Jew of the family; but a Jew that was. So was Goldsheiner a Jew, whom Lady Julia Start had married,--or at any rate had been one a very short time before he ran away with that lady. She counted up ever so many instances on her fingers of "decent people" who had married Jews or Jewesses. Lord Frederic Framlinghame had married a girl of the Berrenhoffers; and Mr. Hart had married a Miss Chute. She did not know much of Miss Chute, but was certain that she was a Christian. Lord Frederic's wife and Lady Julia Goldsheiner were seen everywhere. Though she hardly knew how to explain the matter even to herself, she was sure that there was at present a general heaving-up of society on this matter, and a change in progress which would soon make it a matter of indifference whether anybody was Jew or Christian. For herself she regarded the matter not at all, except as far as it might be regarded by the world in which she wished to live.

Poor Miss Longestaffe! Although she had told Lady Monogram of her engagement, she had not yet found courage to tell her family. The man was absolutely a Jew; there was no doubt of it. Goldsheiner was also a Jew, whom Lady Julia Start had married; and Georgiana had counted up ever so many instances of "decent people" who had married Jews or Jewesses. Lord Frederic Framlingham had married a Berrenhoffer; and Lord Frederic's wife and Lady Julia Goldsheiner were seen everywhere. She was sure that progress in society would soon make it a matter of indifference whether anybody was Jew or Christian.
For herself,


She was herself above all personal prejudices of that kind. Jew, Turk, or infidel was nothing to her. She had seen enough of the world to be aware that her happiness did not lie in that direction, and could not depend in the least on the religion of her husband. Of course she would go to church herself. She always went to church. It was the proper thing to do. As to her husband, though she did not suppose that she could ever get him to church,--nor perhaps would it be desirable,--she thought that she might induce him to go nowhere, so that she might be able to pass him off as a Christian. She knew that such was the Christianity of young Goldsheiner, of which the Starts were now boasting.

she was above all personal prejudices of that kind. Jew, Turk, or infidel was nothing to her. Of course she would go to church. It was the proper thing to do. As to her husband, though she did not suppose that she could ever get him to church, she thought that she might induce him to go nowhere, so that she could pass him off as a Christian.


Had she been alone in the world she thought that she could have looked forward to her destiny with complacency; but she was afraid of her father and mother. Lady Pomona was distressingly old-fashioned, and had so often spoken with horror even of the approach of a Jew,--and had been so loud in denouncing the iniquity of Christians who allowed such people into their houses! Unfortunately, too, Georgiana in her earlier days had re-echoed all her mother's sentiments. And then her father,--if he had ever earned for himself the right to be called a Conservative politician by holding a real opinion of his own,--it had been on that matter of admitting the Jews into parliament. When that had been done he was certain that the glory of England was sunk for ever. And since that time, whenever creditors were more than ordinarily importunate, when Slow and Bideawhile could do nothing for him, he would refer to that fatal measure as though it was the cause of every embarrassment which had harassed him. How could she tell parents such as these that she was engaged to marry a man who at the present moment went to synagogue on a Saturday and carried out every other filthy abomination common to the despised people?

But she was afraid of her father and mother. Lady Pomona was distressingly old-fashioned, and had often spoken with horror even of the approach of a Jew. Unfortunately, Georgiana in her earlier days had echoed her mother's sentiments. And then her father - on the admission of Jews into parliament, he was certain that England's glory was sunk for ever. How could she tell her parents that she was engaged to marry a man who went to synagogue on a Saturday and carried out every other filthy abomination of the despised people?


That Mr. Brehgert was a fat, greasy man of fifty, conspicuous for hair-dye, was in itself distressing:--but this minor distress was swallowed up in the greater. Miss Longestaffe was a girl possessing considerable discrimination, and was able to weigh her own possessions in just scales. She had begun life with very high aspirations, believing in her own beauty, in her mother's fashion, and her father's fortune. She had now been ten years at the work, and was aware that she had always flown a little too high for her mark at the time. At nineteen and twenty and twenty-one she had thought that all the world was before her. With her commanding figure, regular long features, and bright complexion, she had regarded herself as one of the beauties of the day, and had considered herself entitled to demand wealth and a coronet. At twenty-two, twenty-three, and twenty-four any young peer, or peer's eldest son, with a house in town and in the country, might have sufficed. Twenty-five and six had been the years for baronets and squires; and even a leading fashionable lawyer or two had been marked by her as sufficient since that time. But now she was aware that hitherto she had always fixed her price a little too high. On three things she was still determined,--that she would not be poor, that she would not be banished from London, and that she would not be an old maid.

That Mr. Brehgert was a fat, greasy man of fifty, conspicuous for hair-dye, was in itself distressing: but this minor distress was swallowed up in the greater. Miss Longestaffe had begun life with very high aspirations. At nineteen she had thought that all the world was before her. With her commanding figure, regular features, and bright complexion, she had regarded herself as one of the beauties of the day, and had considered herself entitled to demand wealth and a coronet. At twenty-three, any young peer, or peer's eldest son, with a house in town and in the country, might have sufficed. Twenty-five and six had been the years for baronets and squires; and even a leading fashionable lawyer or two had been marked by her as sufficient.
But now she was aware that she had always fixed her price a little too high. On three things she was still determined: that she would not be poor, she would not be banished from London, and she would not be an old maid.


"Mamma," she had often said, "there's one thing certain. I shall never do to be poor." Lady Pomona had expressed full concurrence with her child. "And, mamma, to do as Sophia is doing would kill me. Fancy having to live at Toodlam all one's life with George Whitstable!" Lady Pomona had agreed to this also, though she thought that Toodlam Hall was a very nice home for her elder daughter. "And, mamma, I should drive you and papa mad if I were to stay at home always. And what would become of me when Dolly was master of everything?" Lady Pomona, looking forward as well as she was able to the time at which she should herself have departed, when her dower and dower-house would have reverted to Dolly, acknowledged that Georgiana should provide herself with a home of her own before that time.


And how was this to be done? Lovers with all the glories and all the graces are supposed to be plentiful as blackberries by girls of nineteen, but have been proved to be rare hothouse fruits by girls of twenty-nine. Brehgert was rich, would live in London, and would be a husband. People did such odd things now and "lived them down," that she could see no reason why she should not do this and live this down. Courage was the one thing necessary,--that and perseverance. She must teach herself to talk about Brehgert as Lady Monogram did of Sir Damask. She had plucked up so much courage as had enabled her to declare her fate to her old friend,--remembering as she did so how in days long past she and her friend Julia Triplex had scattered their scorn upon some poor girl who had married a man with a Jewish name,--whose grandfather had possibly been a Jew. "Dear me," said Lady Monogram. "Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner! Mr. Todd is--one of us, I suppose."

Yet how was this to be done? Lovers are as plentiful as blackberries for girls of nineteen, but as rare as hothouse fruits for girls of twenty-nine. Brehgert was rich, would live in London, and would be a husband. People did such odd things now and "lived them down"; she could see no reason why she should not do this and live it down. Courage was the one thing necessary; that and perseverance.
She had plucked up enough courage to declare her fate to her old friend Julia Monogram, remembering as she did so how in days long past the two had scattered their scorn upon some poor girl who had married a man with a Jewish name.
"Dear me," said Lady Monogram. "Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner! Mr. Todd is - one of us, I suppose."


"Yes," said Georgiana boldly, "and Mr. Brehgert is a Jew. His name is Ezekiel Brehgert, and he is a Jew. You can say what you like about it."
"I don't say anything about it, my dear."
"And you can think anything you like. Things are changed since you and I were younger."
"Very much changed, it appears," said Lady Monogram. Sir Damask's religion had never been doubted, though except on the occasion of his marriage no acquaintance of his had probably ever seen him in church.

"Yes," said Georgiana boldly, "and Mr. Brehgert is a Jew. His name is Ezekiel Brehgert. You can say what you like about it."
"I don't say anything about it, my dear."
"And you can think anything you like. Things are changed since you and I were younger."
"Very much changed, it appears," said Lady Monogram.


But to tell her father and mother required a higher spirit than she had shown even in her communication to Lady Monogram, and that spirit had not as yet come to her. On the morning before she left the Melmottes in Bruton Street, her lover had been with her. The Melmottes of course knew of the engagement and quite approved of it. Madame Melmotte rather aspired to credit for having had so happy an affair arranged under her auspices. It was some set-off against Marie's unfortunate escapade. Mr. Brehgert, therefore, had been allowed to come and go as he pleased, and on that morning he had pleased to come. They were sitting alone in some back room, and Brehgert was pressing for an early day. "I don't think we need talk of that yet, Mr. Brehgert," she said.

But to tell her father and mother required a higher spirit, and that spirit had not yet come to Georgiana. On the morning before she left the Melmottes in Bruton Street, her lover had been with her. The Melmottes of course knew of the engagement and quite approved of it. Mr. Brehgert, therefore, had been allowed to come and go as he pleased. On that morning they were sitting alone in some back room, and Brehgert was pressing for an early wedding day.
"I don't think we need talk of that yet, Mr. Brehgert," she said.


"You might as well get over the difficulty and call me Ezekiel at once," he remarked. Georgiana frowned, and made no soft little attempt at the name as ladies in such circumstances are wont to do. "Mrs. Brehgert"--he alluded of course to the mother of his children--"used to call me Ezzy."
"Perhaps I shall do so some day," said Miss Longestaffe, looking at her lover, and asking herself why she should not have been able to have the house and the money and the name of the wife without the troubles appertaining. She did not think it possible that she should ever call him Ezzy.
"And ven shall it be? I should say as early in August as possible."
"In August!" she almost screamed. It was already July.

"You might as well call me Ezekiel," he remarked. Georgiana frowned. "Mrs. Brehgert" - he alluded of course to the mother of his children - "used to call me Ezzy."
"Perhaps I shall do so some day," said Miss Longestaffe, thinking it impossible that she should ever call him Ezzy.
"And ven shall it be? I should say as early in August as possible."
"In August!" she almost screamed. It was already July.


"Vy not, my dear? Ve would have our little holiday in Germany,--at Vienna. I have business there, and know many friends." Then he pressed her hard to fix some day in the next month. It would be expedient that they should be married from the Melmottes' house, and the Melmottes would leave town some time in August. There was truth in this. Unless married from the Melmottes' house, she must go down to Caversham for the occasion,--which would be intolerable. No;--she must separate herself altogether from father and mother, and become one with the Melmottes and the Brehgerts,--till she could live it down and make a position for herself. If the spending of money could do it, it should be done.

"Vy not, my dear? Ve would have our little holiday at Vienna. I have business there, and know many friends." Then he pressed her to fix some day in the next month. It would be expedient to be married from the Melmottes' house, and the Melmottes would leave town in August.
There was truth in this. Unless married from the Melmottes' house, she must go down to Caversham for the occasion - which would be intolerable. No; she must separate herself altogether from father and mother, and become one with the Melmottes and the Brehgerts - till she could live it down.


"I must at any rate ask mamma about it," said Georgiana. Mr. Brehgert, with the customary good-humour of his people, was satisfied with the answer, and went away promising that he would meet his love at the great Melmotte reception. Then she sat silent, thinking how she should declare the matter to her family. Would it not be better for her to say to them at once that there must be a division among them,--an absolute breaking off of all old ties, so that it should be tacitly acknowledged that she, Georgiana, had gone out from among the Longestaffes altogether, and had become one with the Melmottes, Brehgerts, and Goldsheiners?

"I must ask mamma about it," said Georgiana. Mr. Brehgert, with the customary good-humour of his people, was satisfied, and went away promising to meet his love at the great Melmotte reception. Then she sat silent, thinking how she should declare the matter to her family. Would it not be better for her to say at once that there must be a division among them, and acknowledge that she had gone out from among the Longestaffes altogether, and had become one with the Melmottes, Brehgerts, and Goldsheiners?


During these days the intercourse between Lady Carbury and her daughter was constrained and far from pleasant. Hetta, thinking that she was ill-used, kept herself aloof, and would not speak to her mother of herself or of her troubles. Lady Carbury watching her, but not daring to say much, was at last almost frightened at her girl's silence. She had assured herself, when she found that Hetta was disposed to quarrel with her lover and to send him back his brooch, that "things would come round," that Paul would be forgotten quickly,--or laid aside as though he were forgotten,--and that Hetta would soon perceive it to be her interest to marry her cousin. With such a prospect before her, Lady Carbury thought it to be her duty as a mother to show no tendency to sympathise with her girl's sorrow. Such heart-breakings were occurring daily in the world around them. Who were the happy people that were driven neither by ambition, nor poverty, nor greed, nor the cross purposes of unhappy love, to stifle and trample upon their feelings? She had known no one so blessed. She had never been happy after that fashion. She herself had within the last few weeks refused to join her lot with that of a man she really liked, because her wicked son was so grievous a burden on her shoulders.

During these days, the relationship between Lady Carbury and her daughter was constrained. Hetta kept herself aloof, until Lady Carbury was almost frightened at her daughter's silence. She had assured herself that Paul would be forgotten quickly, and that Hetta would soon perceive it to be in her interest to marry her cousin. With this prospect, Lady Carbury thought it to be her duty as a mother to show no sympathy with her girl's sorrow. Such heart-breakings occurred daily. She herself had never been happy in love. She had refused to marry a man she really liked, because her wicked son was so grievous a burden.


A woman, she thought, if she were unfortunate enough to be a lady without wealth of her own, must give up everything, her body, her heart,--her very soul if she were that way troubled,--to the procuring of a fitting maintenance for herself. Why should Hetta hope to be more fortunate than others? And then the position which chance now offered to her was fortunate. This cousin of hers, who was so devoted to her, was in all respects good. He would not torture her by harsh restraint and cruel temper. He would not drink. He would not spend his money foolishly. He would allow her all the belongings of a fair, free life. Lady Carbury reiterated to herself the assertion that she was manifestly doing a mother's duty by her endeavours to constrain her girl to marry such a man. With a settled purpose she was severe and hard.

A woman who had no wealth of her own, she thought, must give up everything, her body, heart and soul, to getting a fitting maintenance for herself.
And Roger was so good. He would not torture Hetta with a cruel temper. He would not drink. He would give her a fair, free life. Lady Carbury repeated to herself that it was a mother's duty to impel her girl to marry such a man.


But when she found how harsh her daughter could be in response to this,--how gloomy, how silent, and how severe in retaliation,--she was almost frightened at what she herself was doing. She had not known how stern and how enduring her daughter could be. "Hetta," she said, "why don't you speak to me?" On this very day it was Hetta's purpose to visit Mrs. Hurtle at Islington. She had said no word of her intention to any one. She had chosen the Friday because on that day she knew her mother would go in the afternoon to her publisher. There should be no deceit. Immediately on her return she would tell her mother what she had done. But she considered herself to be emancipated from control. Among them they had robbed her of her lover.

But when she found how harsh her daughter could be in response - how gloomy, silent and severe - she was almost frightened.
"Hetta," she said, "why don't you speak to me?"
On this very day it was Hetta's purpose to visit Mrs. Hurtle at Islington. She had said no word of her intention to anyone. On her return she would tell her mother what she had done. But she was not under her mother's control.


She had submitted to the robbery, but she would submit to nothing else. "Hetta, why don't you speak to me?" said Lady Carbury.
"Because, mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without making each other unhappy."
"What a dreadful thing to say! Is there no subject in the world to interest you except that wretched young man?"
"None other at all," said Hetta obstinately.
"What folly it is,--I will not say only to speak like that, but to allow yourself to entertain such thoughts!"

"Mamma, there is nothing we can talk about without making each other unhappy."
"What a dreadful thing to say! Is there no subject in the world to interest you except that wretched young man?"
"None at all," said Hetta.
"What folly, to allow yourself to entertain such thoughts!"


"How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, mamma, that after I had owned to you that I loved a man,--after I had owned it to him and, worst of all, to myself,--I could have myself separated from him, and then not think about it? It is a cloud upon everything. It is as though I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would be to you if Felix were to die. It crushes me."
There was an accusation in this allusion to her brother which the mother felt,--as she was intended to feel it,--but to which she could make no reply. It accused her of being too much concerned for her son to feel any real affection for her daughter. "You are ignorant of the world, Hetta," she said.
"I am having a lesson in it now, at any rate."

"How am I to control my thoughts? Do you think, mamma, that after I had owned that I loved a man, I could be separated from him, and then not think about it? It is as though I had lost my eyesight and my speech. It is as it would be to you if Felix were to die. It crushes me."
There was an accusation in this allusion to her brother which the mother felt, but to which she could make no reply. It accused her of being more concerned for her son than her daughter.
"You are ignorant of the world, Hetta," she said.
"I am having a lesson in it now, at any rate."


"Do you think it is worse than others have suffered before you? In what little you see around you do you think that girls are generally able to marry the men upon whom they set their hearts?" She paused, but Hetta made no answer to this. "Marie Melmotte was as warmly attached to your brother as you can be to Mr. Montague."
"Marie Melmotte!"

"Do you think it is worse than others have suffered? Do you think that girls are generally able to marry the men upon whom they set their hearts? Marie Melmotte was as warmly attached to your brother as you can be to Mr. Montague."
"Marie Melmotte!"


"She thinks as much of her feelings as you do of yours. The truth is you are indulging a dream. You must wake from it, and shake yourself, and find out that you, like others, have got to do the best you can for yourself in order that you may live. The world at large has to eat dry bread, and cannot get cakes and sweetmeats. A girl, when she thinks of giving herself to a husband, has to remember this. If she has a fortune of her own she can pick and choose, but if she have none she must allow herself to be chosen."
"Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether she likes the man or not?"
"She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be suitable. I would not have you take a vicious man because he was rich, or one known to be cruel and imperious. Your cousin Roger, you know--"

"The truth is you are indulging a dream. You must wake from it, and shake yourself, and do the best you can for yourself. A girl who has no fortune cannot pick and choose, but must allow herself to be chosen."
"Then a girl is to marry without stopping even to think whether she likes the man or not?"
"She should teach herself to like the man, if the marriage be suitable. I would not have you take a vicious man. But your cousin Roger-"


"Mamma," said Hetta, getting up from her seat, "you may as well believe me. No earthly inducement shall ever make me marry my cousin Roger. It is to me horrible that you should propose it to me when you know that I love that other man with my whole heart."
"How can you speak so of one who has treated you with the utmost contumely?"
"I know nothing of any contumely. What reason have I to be offended because he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? It has been unfortunate, wretched, miserable; but I do not know that I have any right whatever to be angry with Mr. Paul Montague." Having so spoken she walked out of the room without waiting for a further reply.

"Mamma," said Hetta, getting up, "nothing shall ever make me marry my cousin Roger. It is horrible that you should propose it when you know that I love that other man with my whole heart."
"One who has treated you so offensively?"
"What reason have I to be offended because he has liked a woman whom he knew before he ever saw me? It has been unfortunate, wretched; but I do not know that I have any right to be angry with Mr. Montague." She walked out of the room without waiting for a reply.


It was all very sad to Lady Carbury. She perceived now that she had driven her daughter to pronounce an absolution of Paul Montague's sins, and that in this way she had lessened and loosened the barrier which she had striven to construct between them. But that which pained her most was the unrealistic, romantic view of life which pervaded all Hetta's thoughts. How was any girl to live in this world who could not be taught the folly of such idle dreams?

It was all very sad to Lady Carbury. What pained her most was the unrealistic, romantic view of life which pervaded Hetta's thoughts - the folly of her idle dreams.