Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also had thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why had Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not come since her return, and, at any rate, endeavoured to see her? Why had he made no attempt to write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have found a hundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked inside the garden of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived to leave a gate open on each side. But he had made no sign. Her father had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool--and had assured her that he had never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage with her about the money, and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it.

Marie returned to her chair. She also had thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why had Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not tried to see her since her return? Why had he made no attempt to write to her? She had waited in the square, and left the gates open, but he had not come. Her father had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool - that he had never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage about the money.


The repayment he never mentioned,--a piece of honesty, indeed, which had showed no virtue on the part of Sir Felix. But even if he had spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so? Marie could have forgiven that fault,--could have forgiven even the gambling and the drunkenness which had caused the failure of the enterprise on his side, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What she could not forgive was continued indifference,--or the cowardice which forbade him to show himself. She had more than once almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been better than Nidderdale. But now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing should be considered as over between them. No doubt she could write to him. She had more than once almost determined to do so. But then she had reflected that if he really loved her he would come to her. She was quite ready to run away with a lover, if her lover loved her; but she would not fling herself at a man's head.

But even if Felix had spent the money, why was he not man enough to come and say so? Marie could have forgiven that fault - could have forgiven even the gambling and drunkenness which had caused the failure, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What she could not forgive was indifference - or cowardice.
She had more than once almost doubted his love. Now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing was over between them. No doubt she could write to him; but if he really loved her he would come to her. She would not fling herself at a man's head.


Therefore she had done nothing,--beyond leaving the garden gates open on the Sunday morning.

Therefore she had done nothing, beyond leaving the garden gates open on the Sunday morning.


But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an end by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be married and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear again, what should she do? She had seen enough of life to be aware that suitors would come,--would come as long as that convulsion was staved off. She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would frighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put an end to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; and when her father had commanded her, shaking her by the shoulders, to accept Lord Nidderdale when he should come on Sunday, she had replied by expressing her assurance that Lord Nidderdale would never be seen at that house any more. On the Sunday he had not come; but here he was now, standing with his back to the drawing-room door, and cutting off her retreat with the evident intention of renewing his suit. She was determined at any rate that she would speak up. "I don't know what you should have to say to me, Lord Nidderdale."

But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why, that the present turmoil of her father's life might be brought to an end by some dreadful convulsion. No girl could be more anxious to be married and taken away from her home. If Sir Felix did not appear again, what should she do? She did not suppose that her journey to Liverpool would frighten all the men away. But she had thought that it would put an end to Lord Nidderdale's courtship; yet here he was now, standing with his back to the door, and cutting off her retreat.
"I don't know what you should have to say to me, Lord Nidderdale."


"Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?"
"Because--. Oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often, my lord. I thought a gentleman would never go on with a lady when the lady has told him that she liked somebody else better."
"Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me."
"Well; that is impudent! You may believe it then. I think I've given you reason to believe it, at any rate."
"You can't be very fond of him now, I should think."

"Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?"
"Because - oh, you know why. Besides, I've told you ever so often that I liked somebody else better."
"Perhaps I don't believe you."
"Well; that is impudent! I've given you reason to believe it, at any rate."
"You can't be very fond of him now, I should think."


"That's all you know about it, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of him? Accidents will happen, you know."
"I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant, Miss Melmotte."
"You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of course I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought back again."
"Why did not Sir Felix go?"
"I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours."

"That's all you know, my lord. Why shouldn't I be fond of him? Accidents will happen, you know."
"I don't want to make any allusion to anything unpleasant, Miss Melmotte."
"You may say just what you please. All the world knows about it. Of course I went to Liverpool, and papa had me brought back again."
"Why did not Sir Felix go?"
"I don't think, my lord, that that is any business of yours."


"But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let me say what I've got to say,--out at once."
"You may say what you like, but it can't make any difference."
"You knew me before you knew him, you know."
"What does that matter? If it comes to that, I knew ever so many people before I knew you."
"And you were engaged to me."
"You broke it off."

"But I think that it is, and I'll tell you why. You might as well let me say what I've got to say."
"It can't make any difference."
"You were engaged to me before you knew him, you know."
"You broke it off," said Marie.


"Listen to me for a moment or two. I know I did. Or, rather, your father and my father broke it off for us."

"I know I did. Or, rather, your father and my father broke it off for us."


"If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off. Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he really loved me;--not if they were to cut me in pieces. But you didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you. And so did I. But I know better than that now. You never cared for me a bit more than for the old woman at the crossing. You thought I didn't understand;--but I did. And now you've come again;--because your father has told you again. And you'd better go away."

"If we had cared for each other they couldn't have broken it off. Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he really loved me. But you didn't care, not a bit. You did it just because your father told you. And so did I. But I know better than that now. And now you've come again; because your father has told you again. And you'd better go away."


"There's a great deal of truth in what you say."
"It's all true, my lord. Every word of it."
"I wish you wouldn't call me my lord."
"I suppose you are a lord, and therefore I shall call you so. I never called you anything else when they pretended that we were to be married, and you never asked me. I never even knew what your name was till I looked it out in the book after I had consented."
"There is truth in what you say;--but it isn't true now. How was I to love you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now."

"There's a great deal of truth in what you say."
"It's all true, my lord."
"It isn't true now. How was I to love you when I had seen so little of you? I do love you now."


"Then you needn't;--for it isn't any good."
"I do love you now, and I think you'd find that I should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to Liverpool with you."
"You don't know why he didn't go."
"Well;--perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about that."
"Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?" She asked the question with an altered tone and an altered face. "If you really know, you might as well tell me."

"Then you needn't," she said, "for it isn't any good."
"I should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to Liverpool."
"You don't know why he didn't go."
"Perhaps I do. But I did not come here to say anything about that."
"Why didn't he go, Lord Nidderdale?" She asked the question with an altered tone. "If you really know, you might as well tell me."


"No, Marie;--that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell you. Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back to you?"

"No, Marie; that's just what I ought not to do. But he ought to tell you. Do you really believe that he means to come back to you?"


"I don't know," she said, sobbing. "I do love him;--I do indeed. I know that you are good-natured. You are more good-natured than he is. But he did like me. You never did;--no; not a bit. It isn't true. I ain't a fool. I know. No;--go away.

"I don't know," she said, sobbing. "I do love him; I do indeed. I would be cut in pieces for him. I know that you are more good-natured than he is. But he did like me. You never did, not a bit. No; go away.


I won't let you now. I don't care what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. You oughtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here. I didn't let you come. I don't want you to come. No;--I won't say any kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than any person--in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true."

I don't care what he is; I'll be true to him. Go away, Lord Nidderdale. I don't want you to come. No; I won't say any kind word to you. I love Sir Felix Carbury better - than any person - in all the world. There! I don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true."


"Say good-bye to me, Marie."
"Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come any more."
"Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between me and him yet." So he took his leave, and as he sauntered away he thought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme difficulties under which he had laboured in carrying on his suit. "She's quite a different sort of girl from what I took her to be," he said to himself. "Upon my word, she's awfully jolly."

"Say good-bye to me, Marie."
"Oh, I don't mind saying good-bye. Good-bye, my lord; and don't come any more."
"Yes, I shall. Good-bye, Marie. You'll find the difference between me and him yet." So he left, and as he sauntered away he thought that upon the whole he had prospered, considering the extreme difficulties in carrying on his suit.
"She's quite a different sort of girl from what I thought," he said to himself. "Upon my word, she's awfully jolly."


Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost in dismay. It was borne in upon her by degrees that Sir Felix Carbury was not at all points quite as nice as she had thought him. Of his beauty there was no doubt; but then she could trust him for no other good quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some pluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? She had quite believed Lord Nidderdale when he said that he knew the cause that had kept Sir Felix from going to Liverpool. And she had believed him, too, when he said that it was not his business to tell her. But the reason, let it be what it might, must, if known, be prejudicial to her love. Lord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful.

Marie, after this interview, walked about the room almost in dismay. It was borne in upon her that Sir Felix Carbury was not as nice as she had thought him. Of his beauty there was no doubt; but she could have trust in no other good quality. Why did he not come to her? Why did he not show some pluck? Why did he not tell her the truth? Lord Nidderdale was, she thought, not at all beautiful.


He had a common-place, rough face, with a turn-up nose, high cheek bones, no especial complexion, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing eyes,--not at all an Adonis such as her imagination had painted. But if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, she thought that she would have submitted herself to be cut in pieces for him.

He had a commonplace, rough face, with a turned-up nose, high cheek bones, sandy-coloured whiskers, and bright laughing eyes - not at all an Adonis. But if he had only made love at first as he had attempted to do it now, she thought that she would have allowed herself to be cut in pieces for him.


"And now I have something to say to you." Mr. Broune as he thus spoke to Lady Carbury rose up to his feet and then sat down again. There was an air of perturbation about him which was very manifest to the lady, and the cause and coming result of which she thought that she understood. "The susceptible old goose is going to do something highly ridiculous and very disagreeable." It was thus that she spoke to herself of the scene that she saw was prepared for her, but she did not foresee accurately the shape in which the susceptibility of the "old goose" would declare itself. "Lady Carbury," said Mr. Broune, standing up a second time, "we are neither of us so young as we used to be."
"No, indeed;--and therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves the luxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to know each other intimately."

"And now I have something to say to you." Mr. Broune as he spoke stood up, then sat down again, with a perturbed air.
"The susceptible old goose is going to do something highly ridiculous and disagreeable," she thought.
"Lady Carbury," said Mr. Broune, standing up a second time, "we are neither of us so young as we used to be."
"No, indeed; and that is why we can afford the luxury of being friends. Nothing but age enables men and women to know each other intimately."


This speech was a great impediment to Mr. Broune's progress. It was evidently intended to imply that he at least had reached a time of life at which any allusion to love would be absurd. And yet, as a fact, he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young of his age, could walk his four or five miles pleasantly, could ride his cob in the park with as free an air as any man of forty, and could afterwards work through four or five hours of the night with an easy steadiness which nothing but sound health could produce. Mr. Broune, thinking of himself and his own circumstances, could see no reason why he should not be in love. "I hope we know each other intimately at any rate," he said somewhat lamely.
"Oh, yes;--and it is for that reason that I have come to you for advice. Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask you."

This speech was a great impediment to Mr. Broune's progress. It was evidently intended to imply that he had reached a time of life at which love would be absurd. And yet he was nearer fifty than sixty, was young for his age, could walk his four or five miles pleasantly, and work through four or five hours of the night with the easy steadiness of sound health. Mr. Broune could see no reason why he should not be in love.
"I hope we know each other intimately at any rate," he said somewhat lamely.
"Oh, yes; that is why I have come to you for advice."


"I don't see that. I don't quite understand that. But it has nothing to do with my present purpose. When I said that we were neither of us so young as we once were, I uttered what was a stupid platitude,--a foolish truism."
"I did not think so," said Lady Carbury smiling.
"Or would have been, only that I intended something further." Mr. Broune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to get out of it. "I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old to--love."

"When I said that we were neither of us so young as we once were, I uttered a stupid platitude."
"I did not think so," said Lady Carbury, smiling.
"I intended something further." Mr. Broune had got himself into a difficulty and hardly knew how to get out of it. "I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old to - love."


Foolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass of himself? This was worse even than the kiss, as being more troublesome and less easily pushed on one side and forgotten. It may serve to explain the condition of Lady Carbury's mind at the time if it be stated that she did not even at this moment suppose that the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" intended to make her an offer of marriage. She knew, or thought she knew, that middle-aged men are fond of prating about love, and getting up sensational scenes. The falseness of the thing, and the injury which may come of it, did not shock her at all. Had she known that the editor professed to be in love with some lady in the next street, she would have been quite ready to enlist the lady in the next street among her friends that she might thus strengthen her own influence with Mr. Broune. For herself such make-belief of an improper passion would be inconvenient, and therefore to be avoided. But that any man, placed as Mr. Broune was in the world,--blessed with power, with a large income, with influence throughout all the world around him, courted, fted, feared and almost worshipped,--that he should desire to share her fortunes, her misfortunes, her struggles, her poverty and her obscurity, was not within the scope of her imagination. There was a homage in it, of which she did not believe any man to be capable,--and which to her would be the more wonderful as being paid to herself.

Foolish old darling! What did he mean by making such an ass of himself? This was more troublesome even than the kiss. Lady Carbury even now had no inkling that the editor of the Breakfast Table intended to make her an offer of marriage. That Mr. Broune, blessed with power, a large income, and influence - that he should desire to share her fortunes and misfortunes, her struggles and her poverty, was not within the scope of her imagination.


She thought so badly of men and women generally, and of Mr. Broune and herself as a man and a woman individually, that she was unable to conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice. "Mr. Broune," she said, "I did not think that you would take advantage of the confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way."
"To annoy you, Lady Carbury! The phrase at any rate is singular. After much thought I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That I should be--annoyed, and more than annoyed by your refusal, is a matter of course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. But you can extricate yourself from the dilemma only too easily."

She thought so badly of men and women generally, that she was unable to conceive the possibility of such a sacrifice.
"Mr. Broune," she said, "I did not think that you would take advantage of the confidence I have placed in you to annoy me in this way."
"To annoy you, Lady Carbury! I have determined to ask you to be my wife. That I should be - annoyed by your refusal, is a matter of course. That I ought to expect such annoyance is perhaps too true. But you can extricate yourself from the dilemma easily."


The word "wife" came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changed all her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him. She felt sure that she never could love him. Had it been on the cards with her to love any man as a lover, it would have been some handsome spendthrift who would have hung from her neck like a nether millstone. This man was a friend to be used,--to be used because he knew the world. And now he gave her this clear testimony that he knew as little of the world as any other man. Mr. Broune of the "Daily Breakfast Table" asking her to be his wife! But mixed with her other feelings there was a tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, and almost made her weep. That a man,--such a man,--should offer to take half her burdens, and to confer upon her half his blessings!

The word "wife" came upon her like a thunder-clap. It at once changed all her feelings towards him. She did not dream of loving him. Had it been on the cards for her to love any man, it would have been some handsome spendthrift. This man was a friend, to be used because he knew the world. And now he showed that he knew as little of the world as any other man.
But mixed with these feelings was a tenderness which brought back some memory of her distant youth, and almost made her weep. That such a man should offer to take half her burdens!


What an idiot! But what a God! She had looked upon the man as all intellect, alloyed perhaps by some passionless remnants of the vices of his youth; and now she found that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she could touch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitely small!

What an idiot! But what a God! She had looked upon him as all intellect, and now she found that he not only had a human heart in his bosom, but a heart that she could touch. How wonderfully sweet! How infinitely small!


It was necessary that she should answer him--and to her it was only natural that she should at first think what answer would best assist her own views without reference to his. It did not occur to her that she could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of her difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have a father, and such a father, for Felix! How easy would be a literary career to the wife of the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table!" And then it passed through her mind that somebody had told her that the man was paid 3,000 a year for his work. Would not the world, or any part of it that was desirable, come to her drawing-room if she were the wife of Mr. Broune? It all passed through her brain at once during that minute of silence which she allowed herself after the declaration was made to her. But other ideas and other feelings were present to her also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. Once she had fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censure to which she had been subjected.

It was necessary that she should answer him. It did not occur to her that she could love him; but it did occur to her that he might lift her out of her difficulties. What a benefit it would be to her to have such a father for Felix! How easy would be a literary career to the wife of the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table! Would not the world come to her drawing-room if she were the wife of Mr. Broune?
It all passed through her brain at once during that minute of silence which she allowed herself. But other feelings were present also. Perhaps the truest aspiration of her heart had been the love of freedom which the tyranny of her late husband had engendered. Once, she had fled from that tyranny and had been almost crushed by the censure that followed.


Then her husband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her. After that the freedom had come. It had been accompanied by many hopes never as yet fulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows which had been always present to her; but still the hopes were alive and the remembrance of the tyranny was very clear to her. At last the minute was over and she was bound to speak. "Mr. Broune," she said, "you have quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this kind."

Then her husband's protection and his tyranny had been restored to her.
After that the freedom had come; accompanied by many hopes still unfulfilled, and embittered by many sorrows; but the memory of the tyranny was very clear. The minute was over, and she must speak.
"Mr. Broune," she said, "you have quite taken away my breath. I never expected anything of this kind."


And now Mr. Broune's mouth was opened, and his voice was free. "Lady Carbury," he said, "I have lived a long time without marrying, and I have sometimes thought that it would be better for me to go on in the same way to the end. I have worked so hard all my life that when I was young I had no time to think of love. And, as I have gone on, my mind has been so fully employed, that I have hardly realised the want which nevertheless I have felt. And so it has been with me till I fancied, not that I was too old for love, but that others would think me so. Then I met you. As I said at first, perhaps with scant gallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. But you keep the beauty of your youth, and the energy, and something of the freshness of a young heart. And I have come to love you. I speak with absolute frankness, risking your anger.

"Lady Carbury," he said, "I have lived a long time without marrying. I have worked so hard all my life that when I was young I had no time to think of love. And my mind has been so fully employed that I have hardly realised the want which nevertheless I have felt. Then I met you. As I said, perhaps with little gallantry, you also are not as young as you once were. But you keep the beauty and energy of your youth, and the freshness of a young heart. And I have come to love you. I speak with absolute frankness, risking your anger.


I have doubted much before I resolved upon this. It is so hard to know the nature of another person. But I think I understand yours;--and if you can confide your happiness with me, I am prepared to intrust mine to your keeping." Poor Mr. Broune! Though endowed with gifts peculiarly adapted for the editing of a daily newspaper, he could have had but little capacity for reading a woman's character when he talked of the freshness of Lady Carbury's young mind! And he must have surely been much blinded by love, before convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping.
"You do me infinite honour. You pay me a great compliment," ejaculated Lady Carbury.
"Well?"

But if you can confide your happiness with me, I am prepared to entrust mine to your keeping."
Poor Mr. Broune! Though a gifted editor, he showed little capacity for reading a woman's character when he talked of the freshness of Lady Carbury's young mind! And he must have surely been much blinded by love, in convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping.
"You do me infinite honour."
"Well?"


"How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. As God is to be my judge it has come upon me like a dream. I look upon your position as almost the highest in England,--on your prosperity as the uttermost that can be achieved."
"That prosperity, such as it is, I desire most anxiously to share with you."

"How am I to answer you at a moment? I expected nothing of this. It has come upon me like a dream


"You tell me so;--but I can hardly yet believe it. And then how am I to know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr. Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been wounded in every joint, hurt in every nerve,--tortured till I could hardly endure my punishment. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have looked for happiness."
"Has it made you happy?"
"It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered! I have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune."

; I can hardly yet believe it. How am I to know my own feelings so suddenly? Marriage as I have found it, Mr. Broune, has not been happy. I have suffered much. I have been hurt in every nerve - tortured till I could hardly endure it. At last I got my liberty, and to that I have looked for happiness."
"Has it made you happy?"
"It has made me less wretched. And there is so much to be considered! I have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune."


"Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion to you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the troubles which may attend your son's future career."
"Mr. Broune, I love him better,--always shall love him better,--than anything in the world." This was calculated to damp the lover's ardour, but he probably reflected that should he now be successful, time might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed. "Mr. Broune," she said, "I am now so agitated that you had better leave me. And it is very late. The servant is sitting up, and will wonder that you should remain. It is near two o'clock."
"When may I hope for an answer?"

"Your daughter I can love as my own. I think I prove my devotion to you when I say that I am willing for your sake to encounter the troubles which your son may face."
"Mr. Broune, I shall always love him better than anything in the world." This was calculated to damp the lover's ardour, but he probably reflected that if he were successful, time might change her feelings. "Mr. Broune," she said, "you had better leave me. It is very late."
"When may I hope for an answer?"


"You shall not be kept waiting. I will write to you, almost at once. I will write to you,--to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on Thursday. I feel that I ought to have been prepared with an answer; but I am so surprised that I have none ready." He took her hand in his, and kissing it, left her without another word.

"I will write to you - tomorrow; say the day after tomorrow." He kissed her hand and left without another word.


As he was about to open the front door to let himself out, a key from the other side raised the latch, and Sir Felix, returning from his club, entered his mother's house. The young man looked up into Mr. Broune's face with mingled impudence and surprise. "Halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping it up late here; haven't you?" He was nearly drunk, and Mr. Broune, perceiving his condition, passed him without a word. Lady Carbury was still standing in the drawing-room, struck with amazement at the scene which had just passed, full of doubt as to her future conduct, when she heard her son stumbling up the stairs. It was impossible for her not to go out to him. "Felix," she said, "why do you make so much noise as you come in?"

As he was about to let himself out, the front door was opened from the other side, and Sir Felix entered. The young man looked at Mr. Broune with impudence and surprise.
"Halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping up late, haven't you?" He was nearly drunk, and Mr. Broune passed him without a word.
Lady Carbury was still standing in the drawing-room, struck with amazement at the proposal and wondering what she should do, when she heard her son stumbling up the stairs.
"Felix," she said, "why do you make so much noise as you come in?"


"Noish! I'm not making any noish. I think I'm very early. Your people's only just gone. I shaw shat editor fellow at the door that won't call himself Brown. He'sh great ass'h, that fellow. All right, mother. Oh, ye'sh I'm all right." And so he stumbled up to bed, and his mother followed him to see that the candle was at any rate placed squarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains.

"Noish! I'm not making any noish. Your people's only just gone. I shaw that editor fellow at the door. He'sh great assh, that fellow. All right, mother." And so he stumbled up to bed, and his mother followed him to see that the candle was placed squarely on the table, beyond the reach of the bed curtains.


Mr. Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced all those pangs of doubts which a man feels when he has just done that which for days and weeks past he has almost resolved that he had better leave undone. That last apparition which he had encountered at his lady love's door certainly had not tended to reassure him. What curse can be much greater than that inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son? The evil, when in the course of things it comes upon a man, has to be borne; but why should a man in middle life unnecessarily afflict himself with so terrible a misfortune? The woman, too, was devoted to the cub! Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. How would this new life suit him? He must have a new house, and new ways; must live under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures. And what was he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and he liked her beauty.

Mr. Broune as he walked to his newspaper office experienced many pangs of doubt. Would it have been better if he had not spoken? That last apparition at his lady love's door certainly did not reassure him. What curse can be greater than that inflicted by a drunken son? Why should a man unnecessarily afflict himself with so terrible a misfortune?
Then thousands of other thoughts crowded upon him. He must have a new house, and new ways; must fit himself to new pleasures. And what was he to gain by it? Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and, he thought, a clever woman.


He regarded her too as a clever woman; and, because she had flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been long enough about town to have known better,--and as he now walked along the streets, he almost felt that he ought to have known better. Every now and again he warmed himself a little with the remembrance of her beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter, though it might perhaps be less free, than the old one. He tried to make the best of it; but as he did so was always repressed by the memory of the appearance of that drunken young baronet.

Because she had flattered him, he had liked her conversation. He had been around long enough to know better - and he almost felt that he ought to have known better. He warmed himself a little with the remembrance of her beauty, and told himself that his new home would be pleasanter than the old one. He tried to make the best of it; but he was repressed by the memory of that drunken young baronet.


Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken and the thing was done. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him. All his experience of the world was against such refusal. Towns which consider, always render themselves. Ladies who doubt always solve their doubts in the one direction. Of course she would accept him;--and of course he would stand to his guns. As he went to his work he endeavoured to bathe himself in self-complacency; but, at the bottom of it, there was a substratum of melancholy which leavened his prospects.

Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken. It did not occur to him that the lady would refuse him. Of course she would accept him; and of course he would stick to his guns. He tried to feel complacent; but underneath there was a substratum of melancholy.


Lady Carbury went from the door of her son's room to her own chamber, and there sat thinking through the greater part of the night. During these hours she perhaps became a better woman, as being more oblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year. It could not be for the good of this man that he should marry her,--and she did in the midst of her many troubles try to think of the man's condition. Although in the moments of her triumph,--and such moments were many,--she would buoy herself up with assurances that her Felix would become a rich man, brilliant with wealth and rank, an honour to her, a personage whose society would be desired by many, still in her heart of hearts she knew how great was the peril, and in her imagination she could foresee the nature of the catastrophe which might come. He would go utterly to the dogs and would take her with him. And whithersoever he might go, to what lowest canine regions he might descend, she knew herself well enough to be sure that whether married or single she would go with him. Though her reason might be ever so strong in bidding her to desert him, her heart, she knew, would be stronger than her reason. He was the one thing in the world that overpowered her. In all other matters she could scheme, and contrive, and pretend; could get the better of her feelings and fight the world with a double face, laughing at illusions and telling herself that passions and preferences were simply weapons to be used. But her love for her son mastered her,--and she knew it.

Lady Carbury went to her own chamber, and there sat thinking through most of the night. During these hours she perhaps became a better woman, more oblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year. It could not be good for this man that he should marry her. Although in the moments of her triumph she would buoy herself up with assurances that her Felix would become wealthy and brilliant, still in her heart of hearts she knew how great was the peril of catastrophe. He might go utterly to the dogs and take her with him - married or single. He was the one thing in the world that overpowered her. In all other matters she could scheme, and pretend, and overcome her feelings, telling herself that passions were simply weapons to be used. But her love for her son mastered her - and she knew it.


As it was so, could it be fit that she should marry another man?


And then her liberty! Even though Felix should bring her to utter ruin, nevertheless she would be and might remain a free woman. Should the worse come to the worst she thought that she could endure a Bohemian life in which, should all her means have been taken from her, she could live on what she earned. Though Felix was a tyrant after a kind, he was not a tyrant who could bid her do this or that. A repetition of marriage vows did not of itself recommend itself to her. As to loving the man, liking his caresses, and being specially happy because he was near her,--no romance of that kind ever presented itself to her imagination. How would it affect Felix and her together,--and Mr. Broune as connected with her and Felix? If Felix should go to the dogs, then would Mr. Broune not want her. Should Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, and become one of the gilded ornaments of the metropolis, then would not he and she want Mr. Broune. It was thus that she regarded the matter.

And then her liberty! A repetition of marriage vows did not recommend itself to her. As to loving the man, and liking his caresses, she imagined no romance of that kind. If Felix should go to the dogs, then Mr. Broune would not want her. Should Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, then he - and she - would not need Mr. Broune.


She thought very little of her daughter as she considered all this. There was a home for Hetta, with every comfort, if Hetta would only condescend to accept it. Why did not Hetta marry her cousin Roger Carbury and let there be an end of that trouble? Of course Hetta must live wherever her mother lived till she should marry; but Hetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herself bound to be guided in the great matter by Hetta's predispositions.
But she must tell Hetta should she ultimately make up her mind to marry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better. On that night she did not make up her mind. Ever and again as she declared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a comfortable assured home over her head, and the conviction that the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table" would be powerful for all things, brought new doubts to her mind. But she could not convince herself, and when at last she went to her bed her mind was still vacillating. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked a question about the man who was perhaps about to be her husband. "Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?"

She thought very little of her daughter in all this. There was a comfortable home for Hetta, if Hetta would only condescend to marry her cousin Roger. Hetta's life was so much at her own disposal that her mother did not feel herself bound to be guided in this great matter by her wishes. But she must tell Hetta if she decided to marry the man, and the sooner the better.
On that night she did not make up her mind. Even as she declared to herself that she would not marry him, the picture of a comfortable home, and the power of the editor of the Morning Breakfast Table brought doubts to her mind. The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked, "Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?"


"Yes;--pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you ask, mamma?"
"Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly kind to me as he is."
"He always seems to me to like to have his own way."
"Why shouldn't he like it?"
"He has to me that air of selfishness which is so very common with people in London;--as though what he said were all said out of surface politeness."

"Yes; pretty well. I don't care very much about him. What makes you ask, mamma?"
"Because among my acquaintances in London there is no one so truly kind to me as he is."
"I think he has that air of selfishness which is so common with people in London - as though what he said were out of surface politeness."


"I wonder what you expect, Hetta, when you talk of--London people? Why should not London people be as kind as other people? I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as any one I know. But if I like anybody, you always make little of him. The only person you seem to think well of is Mr. Montague."
"Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague's name if I can help it,--and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune, had you not asked me."

"Why should not London people be as kind as other people, Hetta? I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as anyone I know. But the only person you seem to think well of is Mr. Montague."
"Mamma, that is unfair and unkind. I never mention Mr. Montague's name if I can help it, and I should not have spoken of Mr. Broune, unless you had asked me."


Roger Carbury when he received the letter from Hetta's mother desiring him to tell her all that he knew of Paul Montague's connection with Mrs. Hurtle found himself quite unable to write a reply. He endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were not personally concerned. What advice in this emergency would he give to the mother and what to the daughter, were he himself uninterested? He was sure that, as Hetta's cousin and acting as though he were Hetta's brother, he would tell her that Paul Montague's entanglement with that American woman should have forbidden him at any rate for the present to offer his hand to any other lady. He thought that he knew enough of all the circumstances to be sure that such would be his decision. He had seen Mrs. Hurtle with Montague at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come to England with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of an engagement which Montague had often acknowledged. He knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London. He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that, let the cost be what it might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off. He thoroughly believed the man's word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness.

Roger Carbury, when he received the letter from Hetta's mother asking about Paul Montague and Mrs. Hurtle, was quite unable to write a reply. He asked himself what advice he would give if he were not personally concerned. He was sure that, as Hetta's cousin, he would tell her that Montague's entanglement with that American woman should have forbidden him to offer his hand to any other lady. He had seen them at Lowestoft, and had known that they were staying together as friends at the same hotel. He knew that she had come to England because of the engagement, which Montague had acknowledged. He knew that Montague made frequent visits to her in London.
He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that the engagement had been broken off. He believed the man, but put no trust in his firmness


And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs. Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. What father, what elder brother would allow a daughter or a sister to become engaged to a man embarrassed by such difficulties? He certainly had counselled Montague to rid himself of the trammels by which he had surrounded himself;--but not on that account could he think that the man in his present condition was fit to engage himself to another woman.

; and he had no reason for supposing that Mrs. Hurtle had consented to be abandoned. He could not think that the man was at present fit to engage himself to another woman.


All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But then it had been equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale,--which tale had become known to him as the friend of the man against whom it would have to be told. He had resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs. Hurtle together upon the sands at Lowestoft. But what was he to do now? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man,--that man, who in seeking the girl's love, had been as he thought so foul a traitor to himself! That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying hostility he had determined. That his love for the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta's,--but with the distinct understanding that he and the child's father should never see each other. No more than twenty-four hours had intervened between the receipt of Paul's letter and that from Lady Carbury,--but during those four-and-twenty hours he had almost forgotten Mrs. Hurtle. The girl was gone from him, and he thought only of his own loss and of Paul's perfidy.

All this was clear to Roger Carbury. But it was equally clear to him that he could not, as a man of honour, assist his own cause by telling a tale against his friend. What was he to do? The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man - who had been, he thought, a foul traitor to himself! He regarded himself as divided from Montague by an undying hostility. That his love for the woman would be equally undying he was quite sure. Already there were floating across his brain ideas of perpetuating his name in the person of some child of Hetta's - but with the distinct understanding that he and the child's father should never see each other.


Then came the direct question as to which he was called upon for a direct answer. Did he know anything of facts relating to the presence of a certain Mrs. Hurtle in London which were of a nature to make it inexpedient that Hetta should accept Paul Montague as her betrothed lover? Of course he did. The facts were all familiar to him. But how was he to tell the facts? In what words was he to answer such a letter? If he told the truth as he knew it how was he to secure himself against the suspicion of telling a story against his rival in order that he might assist himself, or at any rate, punish the rival?


As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury's letter he determined that he would go to London. If he must tell the story he could tell it better face to face than by any written words. So he made the journey, arrived in town late in the evening, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street between ten and eleven on the morning after the unfortunate meeting which took place between Sir Felix and John Crumb. The page when he opened the door looked as a page should look when the family to which he is attached is suffering from some terrible calamity. "My lady" had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix who was,--as the page reported,--in a very bad way indeed. The page did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Yes; Miss Carbury was up-stairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she, too, was in a very bad condition; and dreadfully put about. That poor Hetta should be "put about" with her brother in the hospital and her lover in the toils of an abominable American woman was natural enough.

As he could not trust himself to write an answer to Lady Carbury's letter, he determined to go to London to tell the story face to face. So he made the journey, and knocked at the door in Welbeck Street the morning after the unfortunate meeting between Sir Felix and John Crumb.
The servant-boy who opened the door looked as if there had been some terrible calamity. "My lady" had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix, who was in a very bad way indeed. The boy did not exactly know what had happened, but supposed that Sir Felix had lost most of his limbs by this time. Miss Carbury was upstairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she too was dreadfully upset.


"What's this about Felix?" asked Roger. The new trouble always has precedence over those which are of earlier date.
"Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital in the city to say that he is there."
"What has happened to him?"

"What's this about Felix?" Roger asked her.
"Oh Roger, I am so glad to see you. Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital to say that he is there."
"What has happened to him?"


"Somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him," said Hetta whimpering. Then she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, that his eyes were in a frightful condition, sundry of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But, the messenger had gone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. "And mamma has gone to fetch him," said Hetta.
"That's John Crumb," said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared into her cousin's face. "You have not been told about John Crumb? No;--you would not hear of him."
"Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?"

"Somebody has - beaten him," said Hetta, whimpering. Then she told the story as far as she knew it. The messenger from the hospital had declared that the young man was in no danger and that none of his bones were broken, but that he was terribly bruised about the face, with some of his teeth knocked out, and his lips cut open. But the surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home. "And mamma has gone to fetch him," said Hetta.
"That's John Crumb," said Roger. Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared at him. "You have not been told about John Crumb."
"Why should he beat Felix like that?"


"They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occur in the world." The girl blushed up to her eyes, as though the whole story of Felix's sin and folly had been told to her. "If it be as I suppose," continued Roger, "John Crumb has considered himself to be aggrieved and has thus avenged himself."
"Did you--know of him before?"
"Yes indeed;--very well. He is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl, with all his heart; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew the story, though he had been told by myself that this honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he thought,--well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb."
"But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!"

"They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles in the world." The girl blushed up to her eyes. "John Crumb is a neighbour of mine and was in love with a girl; and he would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her, and is an honest man with whom she would have been safe and happy. Your brother saw her and, though he knew that honest fellow had placed his happiness on the girl's love, he thought - well, I suppose he thought that such a pretty thing as this girl was too good for John Crumb."
"But Felix has been going to marry Miss Melmotte!"


"You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way,--to be off with the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Such fine young fellows as there are now can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought;--and now he has been punished."
"You know all about it then?"
"No;--I don't know. But I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened to do this thing, and I felt sure that sooner or later he would be as good as his word. If it has been so, who is to blame him?"

"You're old-fashioned, Hetta. It used to be the way - to be off with the old love before you are on with the new; but that seems to be all changed now. Today's fine young fellows can be in love with two at once. That I fear is what Felix has thought; and now he has been punished."
"You know all about it then?"
"I think it has been so. I do know that John Crumb had threatened this. If it has been so, who is to blame him?"


Hetta as she heard the story hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling the story, was speaking of that other man, of that stranger of whom she had never heard, or of himself. He would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of the old-fashioned way, of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague and this story of the American woman? But, if so, it was not for Hetta to notice it by words. He must speak more plainly than that before she could be supposed to know that he alluded to her own condition. "It is very shocking," she said.

Hetta hardly knew whether her cousin, in his manner of telling this story, was speaking of John Crumb or of himself. He would have made her his wife and have been good to her. He had a home to offer her. He was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and happy! He had looked at her while speaking as though it were her own case of which he spoke. And then, when he talked of being off with the old love before you are on with the new, had he not alluded to Paul Montague?
But, if so, he must speak more plainly than that. "It is very shocking," she said.


"Shocking;--yes. One is shocked at it all. I pity your mother, and I pity you."
"It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said Hetta. She was longing to be told something of Mrs. Hurtle, but she did not as yet dare to ask the question.
"I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he after a short pause.
"Pray wait for her if you are not very busy."
"I came up only to see her, but perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house."

"Yes. I pity your mother, and you."
"It seems to me that nothing ever will be happy for us," said Hetta. She was longing to be told about Mrs. Hurtle, but she did not dare to ask the question.
"I do not know whether to wait for your mother or not," said he after a short pause.
"Pray wait for her if you are not busy."
"Perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house."


"Indeed she will. She would like you always to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"She has written to you;--has she not?"
"Yes; she has written to me."
"And about me?"
"Yes;--about you, Hetta. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also."
"He told me that he would," whispered Hetta.

"Indeed she will. She would always like you to be here when there are troubles. Oh, Roger, I wish you could tell me."
"Tell you what?"
"She has written to you, has she not, about me?"
"Yes. And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also."
"He told me that he would," whispered Hetta.


"Did he tell you of my answer?"
"No;--he has told me of no answer. I have not seen him since."
"You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you? I also have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it after the same fashion."
"Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?"

"Did he tell you of my answer?"
"No. I have not seen him since."
"You do not think that my answer can have been very kind, do you? I have something of the feeling of John Crumb, though I shall not attempt to show it in the same way."
"Did you not say the girl had promised to love that man?"


"I did not say so;--but she had promised. Yes, Hetta; there is a difference. The girl then was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. I have never harboured a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he,--he has been if possible more false than Felix."
"Oh, Roger, how has he been false?"

"I did not say; but she had promised. Yes, Hetta, there is a difference. The girl was fickle and went back from her word. You never have done that. I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you. It is not you that I reproach. But he - he has been if possible more false than Felix."
"Oh, Roger, how has he been false?"


Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. The treachery of which he was speaking was that which he had thought had been committed by his friend towards himself. "He should have left the place and never have come near you," said Roger, "when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips."
How was she to tell him that the cup of water never could have touched his lips? And yet if this were the only falsehood of which he had to tell, she was bound to let him know that it was so. That horrid story of Mrs. Hurtle;--she would listen to that if she could hear it. She would be all ears for that. But she could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. "But, Roger," she said--"it would have been the same."

Still he did not wish to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle. His friend's falseness had been towards himself. "He should have left the place and never have come near you," said Roger, "when he found how it was likely to be with him. He owed it to me not to take the cup of water from my lips."
Hetta could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her. "But, Roger," she said, "the result would have been the same."


"You may think so. You may feel it. You may know it. I at any rate will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so. But he didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger brother,--and he has robbed me of everything. I understand, Hetta, what you mean. I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible if Paul had never come home from America.

"You may think so. You may feel it. I will not contradict you when you say so. But he didn't feel it. He didn't know it. He was to me as a younger brother - and he has robbed me of everything. Hetta, I know I should never have succeeded! My happiness would have been impossible even if Paul had never come home from America.


I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's, or whether you are Hetta Carbury on to the end, my feeling to you will be the same. While we both live, you must be to me the dearest creature living. My hatred to him--"
"Oh, Roger, do not say hatred."

I have told myself so a hundred times, but I cannot therefore forgive him. And I won't forgive him, Hetta. Whether you are his wife, or another man's, you must always be to me the dearest creature living. My hatred to him-"
"Oh, Roger, do not say hatred."


"My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. I tell you that should you become his wife you will still be my love. As to not coveting,--how is a man to cease to covet that which he has always coveted? But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could only have a chance of winning you to share my toils with me."

"My hostility to him can make no difference in my feeling to you. If you become his wife you will still be my love. But I shall be separated from you. Should I be dying, then I should send for you. You are the very essence of my life. I have no dream of happiness otherwise than as connected with you. He might have my whole property and I would work for my bread, if I could only have a chance of winning you."


But still there was no word of Mrs. Hurtle. "Roger," she said, "I have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice."
"If he were unworthy would your heart never change?"
"I think--never. Roger, is he unworthy?"

"Roger," she said, "I have given it all away now. It cannot be given twice."
"If he were unworthy would your heart never change?"
"I think - never. Roger, is he unworthy?"


"How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He has been ungrateful to me as one man hardly ever is to another. He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. And now you ask me whether he is unworthy! I cannot tell you."
"If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, getting up and taking him by the arm.
"No;--I will tell you nothing. Go to some one else, not to me;" and he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself from her hold.

"How can you trust me to answer such a question? He is my enemy. He has been ungrateful to me. He has turned all my sweetness to gall, all my flowers to bitter weeds; he has choked up all my paths. And you ask me whether he is unworthy! I cannot tell you."
"If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, taking him by the arm.
"No; I will tell you nothing." He tried gently but ineffectually to remove her hand.


"Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me,--because you yourself are so good. Even though you hated him you would say so. It would not be you to leave a false impression even against your enemies. I ask you because, however it may be with you, I know I can trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother. He has my heart. Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?"
"Ask himself, Hetta."

"Roger, if you knew him to be good you would tell me, because you yourself are so good. I ask you because I know I can trust you. I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves a brother. He has my heart. Tell me; is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?"
"Ask him, Hetta."


"And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger? Who is--Mrs. Hurtle?"
"Have you asked him?"

"And you will tell me nothing? You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger? Who is - Mrs. Hurtle?


"I had not heard her name when he parted from me. I did not even know that such a woman lived. Is it true that he has promised to marry her? Felix told me of her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannot trust Felix as I would trust you. And mamma says that it is so;--but mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?"
"There is such a woman certainly."
"And she has been,--a friend of Paul's?"

I had never heard of her before Felix told me about her, and told me also that you knew. But I cannot trust Felix. And mamma also bids me ask you. There is such a woman?"
"Certainly."
"And she has been - a friend of Paul's?"


"Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. I will say neither evil nor good of the man except in regard to his conduct to myself. Send for him and ask him to tell you the story of Mrs. Hurtle as it concerns himself. I do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know that he is lying."
"And that is all?"

"Whatever be the story, Hetta, you shall not hear it from me. Send for him and ask him to tell you about Mrs. Hurtle. I do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know."
"And that is all?"


"All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother; but I cannot put myself in the place of your brother. I tell you plainly that I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husband of yours. I think if twenty years were to pass over us, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover,--though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?"
"Ah,--what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart."
"Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence."

"Hetta, you ask me to be your brother; but I cannot put myself in a brother's place. I tell you plainly that I am your lover, and shall remain so. Your brother would welcome the man whom you would choose as your husband. I can never welcome any husband of yours. If twenty years were to pass, and you were still Hetta Carbury, I should still be your lover - though an old one. What is now to be done about Felix, Hetta?"
"Ah - what can be done? I think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart."
"Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence."


"But what can she do? You would not have her turn him into the street?"
"I do not know that I would not. For a time it might serve him perhaps. Here is the cab. Here they are. Yes; you had better go down and let your mother know that I am here. They will perhaps take him up to bed, so that I need not see him."

"But you would not have her turn him into the street?"
"I think I might. For a time it might help. Here is the cab. You had better go down and let your mother know that I am here."


Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in the hall. Felix having the full use of his arms and legs was able to descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house, and then, without speaking a word to his sister, hid himself in the dining-room. His face was strapped up with plaister so that not a feature was visible; and both his eyes were swollen and blue; part of his beard had been cut away, and his physiognomy had altogether been so treated that even the page would hardly have known him. "Roger is up-stairs, mamma," said Hetta in the hall.
"Has he heard about Felix;--has he come about that?"
"He has heard only what I have told him. He has come because of your letter. He says that a man named Crumb did it."

Hetta went down and met her mother and her brother in the hall. Felix was able to descend from the cab, and hurry across the pavement into the house, where he hid himself in the dining-room. His face was bandaged; both his eyes were swollen and blue, and part of his beard had been cut away.
"Roger is upstairs, mamma," said Hetta.
"Has he come because of Felix?"
"He has come because of your letter. He says that a man named Crumb did it."


"Then he does know. Who can have told him? He always knows everything. Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this wretched boy?"
"Is he hurt, mamma?"

"Oh, Hetta, what am I to do? Where shall I go with this wretched boy?"
"Is he hurt, mamma?"


"Hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill him. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever. But oh, Hetta;--what am I to do with him? What am I to do with myself and you?"

"Of course he is; horribly hurt. The brute tried to kill him. They say that he will be dreadfully scarred. But oh, Hetta; what am I to do with him?"


On this occasion Roger was saved from the annoyance of any personal intercourse with his cousin Felix. The unfortunate one was made as comfortable as circumstances would permit in the parlour, and Lady Carbury then went up to her cousin in the drawing-room. She had learned the truth with some fair approach to accuracy, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied as to every detail. There are some circumstances so distressing in themselves as to make lying almost a necessity. When a young man has behaved badly about a woman, when a young man has been beaten without returning a blow, when a young man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can he do but lie? How could Sir Felix tell the truth about that rash encounter? But the policeman who had brought him to the hospital had told all that he knew. The man who had thrashed the baronet had been called Crumb, and the thrashing had been given on the score of a young woman called Ruggles. So much was known at the hospital, and so much could not be hidden by any lies which Sir Felix might tell. And when Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beating him, no one believed him.

Felix was made as comfortable as possible in the parlour, and Lady Carbury then went up to her cousin Roger in the drawing-room. She had learned the truth, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied about every detail. When a young man's pleasant vices are brought directly under a mother's eyes, what can he do but lie?
But the policeman who had taken him to the hospital had told her all that he knew about John Crumb and Ruby Ruggles. And when Sir Felix swore that a policeman was holding him while Crumb was beating him, no one believed him.


In such cases the liar does not expect to be believed. He knows that his disgrace will be made public, and only hopes to be saved from the ignominy of declaring it with his own words.


"What am I to do with him?" Lady Carbury said to her cousin. "It is no use telling me to leave him. I can't do that. I know he is bad. I know that I have done much to make him what he is." As she said this the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. "But he is my child. What am I to do with him now?"

"What am I to do with him?" Lady Carbury said to her cousin. "I can't leave him. I know he is bad. I know that I have done much to make him what he is." As she said this the tears were running down her poor worn cheeks. "But he is my child. What am I to do with him now?"


This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer. If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir Felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction. Thinking as he did of his cousin he could see no possible salvation for him. "Perhaps I should take him abroad," he said.
"Would he be better abroad than here?"
"He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running you into debt."

This was a question which Roger found it almost impossible to answer. If he had spoken his thoughts he would have declared that Sir Felix had reached an age at which, if a man will go headlong to destruction, he must go headlong to destruction.
"Perhaps take him abroad," he said. "He would have less opportunity for vice, and for running you into debt."


Lady Carbury, as she turned this counsel in her mind, thought of all the hopes which she had indulged,--her literary aspirations, her Tuesday evenings, her desire for society, her Brounes, her Alfs, and her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and the determination which she had made that now in the afternoon of her days she would become somebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to the dreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible that she should live in London with such a son as hers? There seemed to be a cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured. This was harder even than those lies which had been told of her when almost in fear of her life she had run from her husband's house. But yet she must do even this if in no other way she and her son could be together. "Yes," she said, "I suppose it would be so. I only wish that I might die, so that were an end of it."
"He might go out to one of the Colonies," said Roger.

Lady Carbury thought of all the hopes she had indulged - her literary aspirations, her Tuesday evenings, her Brounes, her Alfs, and her Bookers, her pleasant drawing-room, and her determination to become somebody in the world. Must she give it all up and retire to some dreary French town because of her son? This seemed to be crueller than all cruelties that she had hitherto endured. Yet she must do this if in no other way could she and her son be together.
"Yes," she said, "I suppose it would be so. I only wish that I might die, so that were an end of it."
"He might go out to one of the Colonies," said Roger.


"Yes;--be sent away that he might kill himself with drink in the bush, and so be got rid of. I have heard of that before. Wherever he goes I shall go."
As the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this cousin of his in much esteem. He knew her to be worldly and he thought her to be unprincipled. But now, at this moment, her exceeding love for the son whom she could no longer pretend to defend, wiped out all her sins. He forgot the visit made to Carbury under false pretences, and the Melmottes, and all the little tricks which he had detected, in his appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful. "If you like to let your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to you."
"But, Felix?"

"Yes - be sent away to kill himself with drink in the bush. I have heard of that. Wherever he goes I shall go."
As the reader knows, Roger had not lately held Lady Carbury in much esteem. He thought her to be worldly and unprincipled. But now her exceeding love for her son wiped out all her sins. He forgot all her little tricks in his appreciation of an affection which was pure and beautiful.
"If you would like to let out your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to you.


"You shall take him there. I am all alone in the world. I can make a home for myself at the cottage. It is empty now. If you think that would save you you can try it for six months."

You can take Felix there. I can make a home for myself at the cottage. If you think that would save you, you can try it for six months."


"And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger. I cannot do that. And, Roger;--what is to be done about Hetta?" Hetta herself had retreated, leaving Roger and her mother alone together, feeling sure that there would be questions asked and answered in her absence respecting Mrs. Hurtle, which her presence would prevent. She wished it could have been otherwise--that she might have been allowed to hear it all herself--as she was sure that the story coming through her mother would not savour so completely of unalloyed truth as if told to her by her cousin Roger.
"Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said.
"How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is it not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he has promised to marry?"
"No;--that is not true."

"And turn you out of your own house? No, Roger, I cannot do that. And Roger; what is to be done about Hetta?" Hetta herself had retreated, so that her mother and Roger could speak freely together.
"Hetta can be trusted to judge for herself," he said.
"How can you say that when she has just accepted this young man? Is it not true that he is even now living with an American woman whom he has promised to marry?"
"No; that is not true."


"What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?"
Roger hesitated a moment. "I do not know that even that is true. When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have told Hetta to ask himself. Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him simply what is the nature of his connexion with Mrs. Hurtle, he will tell her the truth."

"What is true, then? Is he not engaged to the woman?"
Roger hesitated a moment. "When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end. I have told Hetta to ask him. Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that she needs to know the truth. I do not love him, Lady Carbury. He has no longer any place in my friendship. But I think that if Hetta asks him, he will tell her the truth."


Roger did not again see Hetta before he left the house, nor did he see his cousin Felix at all. He had now done all that he could do by his journey up to London, and he returned on that day back to Carbury. Would it not be better for him, in spite of the protestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family from his mind? There could be no other love for him. He must be desolate and alone. But he might then save himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in the world. But no! He would not allow himself to believe that this could be right. The very fact of his love made it a duty to him,--made it almost the first of his duties,--to watch over the interests of her he loved and of those who belonged to her.
But among those so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague.

Roger did not see Hetta again before he returned to Carbury, nor did he see Felix at all. Would it not be better for him to dismiss the whole family from his mind? He might then save himself from a world of cares, and might gradually teach himself to live as though there were no such woman as Hetta Carbury in the world.
But no! The very fact of his love made it his foremost duty to watch over the interests of her he loved, and of those who belonged to her. But among those who belonged to her, he did not recognise Paul Montague.


It does sometimes occur in life that an unambitious man, who is in no degree given to enterprises, who would fain be safe, is driven by the cruelty of circumstances into a position in which he must choose a side, and in which, though he has no certain guide as to which side he should choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should take the wrong side. This was felt as a hardship by many who were quite suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to Melmotte's dinner, or join themselves to the faction of those who had determined to stay away although they had accepted invitations. Some there were not without a suspicion that the story against Melmotte had been got up simply as an electioneering trick,--so that Mr. Alf might carry the borough on the next day. As a dodge for an election this might be very well, but any who might be deterred by such a manoeuvre from meeting the Emperor and supporting the Prince would surely be marked men. And none of the wives, when they were consulted, seemed to care a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or not. Would the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses be there? This was the only question which concerned them. They did not care whether Melmotte was arrested at the dinner or after the dinner, so long as they, with others, could show their diamonds in the presence of eastern and western royalty. But yet,--what a fiasco would it be, if at this very instant of time the host should be apprehended for common forgery! The great thing was to ascertain whether others were going.

It sometimes happens that an unambitious man is driven into a position in which he must choose a side; and though he does not know which side to choose, he is aware that he will be disgraced if he should make the wrong choice. This was felt by many who were suddenly forced to make up their mind whether they would go to Melmotte's dinner, or stay away.
Some suspected that the story against Melmotte had been got up simply as an electioneering trick, so that Mr. Alf might win the borough on the next day. As a dodge for an election this might work, but any who were therefore deterred from supporting their Prince at the dinner would surely be marked men. And none of the wives cared a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or not. Would the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses be there? This was the only question which concerned them. They did not care whether Melmotte was arrested at the dinner, so long as they could show their diamonds in the presence of royalty.
Yet what a fiasco would it be, if the host should be apprehended for common forgery! The great thing was to find out whether others were going.


If a hundred or more out of the two hundred were to be absent how dreadful would be the position of those who were present! And how would the thing go if at the last moment the Emperor should be kept away? The Prime Minister had decided that the Emperor and the Prince should remain altogether in ignorance of the charges which were preferred against the man; but of that these doubters were unaware. There was but little time for a man to go about town and pick up the truth from those who were really informed; and questions were asked in an uncomfortable and restless manner. "Is your Grace going?" said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage,--having left the House and gone into the park between six and seven to pick up some hints among those who were known to have been invited. The Duchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. "I usually keep engagements when I make them, Mr. Lupton," said the Duchess. She had been assured by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hour before that everything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had not then even heard of the rumour.

If half stayed away, how dreadful would be the position of those who were present! And what if at the last moment the Emperor should be kept away? The Prime Minister had decided that the Emperor and the Prince should remain in ignorance of the charges against Melmotte; but of that these doubters were unaware.
"Is your Grace going?" said Lionel Lupton to the Duchess of Stevenage, having gone into the park between six and seven to pick up some hints. The Duchess was Lord Alfred's sister, and of course she was going. She had been assured by Lord Alfred not a quarter of an hour before that everything was as straight as a die. Lord Alfred had not then even heard of the rumour.


But ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Beauchamp Beauclerk attended the dinner. They had received special tickets as supporters of Mr. Melmotte at the election,--out of the scanty number allotted to that gentleman himself,--and they thought themselves bound in honour to be there. But they, with their leader, and one other influential member of the party, were all who at last came as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster. The existing ministers were bound to attend to the Emperor and the Prince. But members of the Opposition, by their presence, would support the man and the politician, and both as a man and as a politician they were ashamed of him.

Ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Beauchamp Beauclerk attended the dinner. They had received special tickets as supporters of Mr. Melmotte at the election, and they thought themselves honour-bound to be there. But they, with their leader, and one other member of the party, were all who came as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster.


When Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter he had heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs of money, so laden with cares, encompassed by such dangers, should be free from suspicion and fear it is impossible to imagine. That such burdens should be borne at all is a wonder to those whose shoulders have never been broadened for such work;--as is the strength of the blacksmith's arm to men who have never wielded a hammer. Surely his whole life must have been a life of terrors! But of any special peril to which he was at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment which might affect the work of the evening, he knew nothing. He placed his wife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his immediate satellites around him,--among whom were included the two Grendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr. Cohenlupe,--with a feeling of gratified glory. Nidderdale down at the House had heard the rumour, but had determined that he would not as yet fly from his colours. Cohenlupe had also come up from the House, where no one had spoken to him. Though grievously frightened during the last fortnight, he had not dared to be on the wing as yet. And, indeed, to what clime could such a bird as he fly in safety?

When Melmotte arrived at his own door with his wife and daughter he had heard nothing of the matter. That a man so vexed with affairs of money, so laden with cares and dangers, should be free from fear it is impossible to imagine. That such burdens should be borne at all is a wonder. Surely his whole life must have been a life of terrors! But of any special peril at that moment, he knew nothing. He placed his wife in the drawing-room and himself in the hall, and arranged his satellites around him - including the two Grendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr. Cohenlupe - with a feeling of gratified glory.
Nidderdale had heard the rumour at the Houses of Parliament, but had determined that he would not as yet fly. Cohenlupe had also come up from the House, where no one had spoken to him. Though grievously frightened, he had not dared to be on the wing as yet. And, indeed, to what clime could such a bird as he fly in safety?


He had not only heard,--but also knew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast. Since they had been in the hall Miles had spoken dreadful words to his father. "You've heard about it; haven't you?" whispered Miles. Lord Alfred, remembering his sister's question, became almost pale, but declared that he had heard nothing. "They're saying all manner of things in the City;--forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming." Lord Alfred made no reply. It was the philosophy of his life that misfortunes when they came should be allowed to settle themselves. But he was unhappy.

He knew very much, and was not prepared to enjoy the feast.
In the hall Miles whispered to his father.
"You've heard about it; haven't you?" Lord Alfred turned pale, but declared that he had heard nothing. "They're saying all manner of things in the City; forgery and heaven knows what. The Lord Mayor is not coming."
Lord Alfred made no reply. But he was unhappy.


The grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand people all came. The unfortunate Emperor,--we must consider a man to be unfortunate who is compelled to go through such work as this,--with impassible and awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor, whence he and other royalties were to be marshalled back into the banqueting hall. Melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked backwards before him, and was probably taken by the Emperor for some Court Master of the Ceremonies especially selected to walk backwards on this occasion. The Princes had all shaken hands with their host, and the Princesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumour had as yet been whispered in royal palaces. Besides royalty the company allowed to enter the room downstairs was very select. The Prime Minister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of India with whose features the Emperor was supposed to be peculiarly familiar, were alone there. The remainder of the company, under the superintendence of Lord Alfred, were received in the drawing-room above. Everything was going on well, and they who had come and had thought of not coming were proud of their wisdom.

The grand arrivals were punctual, and the very grand people all came. The Emperor, with impassive and awful dignity, was marshalled into the room on the ground floor, before being marshalled back into the banqueting hall. Melmotte, bowing to the ground, walked backwards before him, and was probably taken by the Emperor for some Court Master of Ceremonies. The Princes had all shaken hands with Melmotte, and the Princesses had bowed graciously. Nothing of the rumour had been whispered in royal palaces.
Besides royalty the company allowed to enter the room was very select: the Prime Minister, one archbishop, two duchesses, and an ex-governor of India. The remainder of the company were received in the drawing-room above. Everything was going well, and they who had decided to come were proud of their wisdom.


But when the company was seated at dinner the deficiencies were visible enough, and were unfortunate. Who does not know the effect made by the absence of one or two from a table intended for ten or twelve,--how grievous are the empty places, how destructive of the outward harmony and grace which the hostess has endeavoured to preserve are these interstices, how the lady in her wrath declares to herself that those guilty ones shall never have another opportunity of filling a seat at her table? Some twenty, most of whom had been asked to bring their wives, had slunk from their engagements, and the empty spaces were sufficient to declare a united purpose. A week since it had been understood that admission for the evening could not be had for love or money, and that a seat at the dinner-table was as a seat at some banquet of the gods! Now it looked as though the room were but half-filled. There were six absences from the City. Another six of Mr. Melmotte's own political party were away. The archbishops and the bishop were there, because bishops never hear worldly tidings till after other people;--but that very Master of the Buckhounds for whom so much pressure had been made did not come. Two or three peers were absent, and so also was that editor who had been chosen to fill Mr. Alf's place. One poet, two painters, and a philosopher had received timely notice at their clubs, and had gone home.

But when the company was seated at dinner the absences were unfortunately visible. A week ago, admission could not be had for love or money. Now it looked as though the room were but half-filled. There were six absences from the City; another six of Mr. Melmotte's own political party were away. The archbishops and the bishop were there, but two or three peers were absent, and so were a poet, two painters, and a philosopher,


The three independent members of the House of Commons for once agreed in their policy, and would not lend the encouragement of their presence to a man suspected of forgery. Nearly forty places were vacant when the business of the dinner commenced.
Melmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to himself at the big table, and having had the objectionable bar removed, and his own chair shoved one step nearer to the centre, had carried his. point. With the anxiety natural to such an occasion, he glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent. "How is it that there are so many places empty?" he said to his faithful Achates.
"Don't know," said Achates, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to look round upon the hall.
Melmotte waited awhile, then looked round again, and asked the question in another shape: "Hasn't there been some mistake about the numbers? There's room for ever so many more."

 as well as three independent members of the House of Commons. Nearly forty places were vacant when the dinner commenced.
Melmotte had insisted that Lord Alfred should sit next to him at the big table, having had the objectionable bar removed, and his own chair shoved nearer to the centre. He glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent.
"How is it that there are so many places empty?" he asked.
"Don't know," said Lord Alfred, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to look round upon the hall.
Melmotte looked round again. "Has there been some mistake about the numbers? There's room for ever so many more."


"Don't know," said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, and repenting himself that he had ever seen Mr. Melmotte.
"What the deuce do you mean?" whispered Melmotte. "You've been at it from the beginning and ought to know. When I wanted to ask Brehgert, you swore that you couldn't squeeze a place."
"Can't say anything about it," said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixed upon his plate.
"I'll be d---- if I don't find out," said Melmotte. "There's either some horrible blunder, or else there's been imposition. I don't see quite clearly. Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?"

"Don't know," said Lord Alfred unhappily, wishing that he had never seen Mr. Melmotte.
"What the deuce do you mean?" whispered Melmotte. "You ought to know."
"Can't say anything about it," said Lord Alfred, with his eyes fixed upon his plate.
"I'll be d___ if I don't find out," said Melmotte.


"Hasn't come, I suppose."
"And where's the Lord Mayor?" Melmotte, in spite of royalty, was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. "I know all their places, and I know where they were put. Have you seen the Lord Mayor?"
"No; I haven't seen him at all."
"But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred?"
"Don't know anything about it." He shook his head but would not, for even a moment, look round upon the room.

"Where's the Lord Mayor?" In spite of royalty, he was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall. "Have you seen the Lord Mayor?"
"No, I haven't."
"But he was to come. What's the meaning of it, Alfred?"
"Don't know anything about it."


"And where's Mr. Killegrew,--and Sir David Boss?" Mr. Killegrew and Sir David were gentlemen of high standing, and destined for important offices in the Conservative party. "There are ever so many people not here. Why, there's not above half of them down the room. What's up, Alfred? I must know."

"And where's Mr. Killegrew, and Sir David Boss? What's up, Alfred? I must know."


"I tell you I know nothing. I could not make them come." Lord Alfred's answers were made not only with a surly voice, but also with a surly heart. He was keenly alive to the failure, and alive also to the feeling that the failure would partly be attached to himself. At the present moment he was anxious to avoid observation, and it seemed to him that Melmotte, by the frequency and impetuosity of his questions, was drawing special attention to him. "If you go on making a row," he said, "I shall go away." Melmotte looked at him with all his eyes. "Just sit quiet and let the thing go on. You'll know all about it soon enough." This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmotte peace of mind.

"I could not make them come." Lord Alfred's answers were surly. He was sure the failure would partly be attached to himself, and he felt that Melmotte, by his frequent questions, was drawing attention to him. "If you go on making a row," he said, "I shall go away. Just sit quiet. You'll know all about it soon enough."
This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmotte peace of mind.


For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and moved down the hall behind the guests.
In the meantime, Imperial Majesty and Royalties of various denominations ate their dinner, without probably observing those Banquo's seats. As the Emperor talked Manchoo only, and as there was no one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English,--the imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo into ordinary Chinese which had to be reinterpreted,--it was not within his Imperial Majesty's power to have much conversation with his neighbours. And as his neighbours on each side of him were all cousins and husbands, and brothers and wives, who saw each constantly under, let us presume, more comfortable circumstances, they had not very much to say to each other. Like most of us, they had their duties to do, and, like most of us, probably found their duties irksome. The brothers and sisters and cousins were used to it; but that awful Emperor, solid, solemn, and silent, must, if the spirit of an Eastern Emperor be at all like that of a Western man, have had a weary time of it. He sat there for more than two hours, awful, solid, solemn, and silent, not eating very much,--for this was not his manner of eating; nor drinking very much,--for this was not his manner of drinking; but wondering, no doubt, within his own awful bosom, at the changes which were coming when an Emperor of China was forced, by outward circumstances, to sit and hear this buzz of voices and this clatter of knives and forks. "And this," he must have said to himself, "is what they call royalty in the West!" If a prince of our own was forced, for the good of the country, to go among some far distant outlandish people, and there to be poked in the ribs, and slapped on the back all round, the change to him could hardly be so great.

For a few minutes he did sit quiet. Then he got up and moved down the hall behind the guests.
In the meantime, various Royalties ate their dinner, without observing those empty Banquo's seats. As the Emperor spoke only Manchoo, and as there was no one present who could even interpret Manchoo into English - the imperial interpreter condescending only to interpret Manchoo into ordinary Chinese - his Imperial Majesty could not have much conversation with his neighbours. And his neighbours had not very much to say to each other. They probably found these duties irksome; and that solemn, silent Emperor must have had a weary time of it. He sat there for more than two hours, not eating nor drinking very much; but wondering at the changes which were coming when an Emperor of China was forced to sit and hear this buzz of voices and clatter of knives and forks. "And this," he must have said to himself, "is what they call royalty in the West!"


"Where's Sir Gregory?" said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, bending over the chair of a City friend. It was old Todd, the senior partner of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner. Mr. Todd was a very wealthy man, and had a considerable following in the City.
"Ain't he here?" said Todd,--knowing very well who had come from the City and who had declined.
"No;--and the Lord Mayor's not come;--nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter. What's the meaning of it?"

"Where's Sir Gregory Gribe?" said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, to a City friend - old Todd, of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner.
"Ain't he here?" said Todd, knowing very well that he wasn't.
"No - and the Lord Mayor's not come; nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter. What's the meaning of it?"