His father had felt that it would be wrong and might probably be foolish to oppose so natural a desire. He had regarded all the circumstances of "the fling" with indulgent eyes. But there arose some little difference as to the duration of the fling, and the father had at last found himself compelled to inform his son that if the fling were carried on much longer it must be done with internecine war between himself and his heir.

His indulgent father had felt that it would be foolish to oppose so natural a desire; but there arose some difference as to the duration of the fling, and the father had at last informed his son that if the fling were carried on much longer it would mean war between himself and his heir.


Nidderdale, whose sense and temper were alike good, saw the thing quite in the proper light. He assured his father that he had no intention of "cutting up rough," declared that he was ready for the heiress as soon as the heiress should be put in his way, and set himself honestly about the task imposed on him.

Nidderdale, whose sense and temper were good, assured his father that he did not want that, and was ready for the heiress as soon as she should be put in his way.


This had all been arranged at Auld Reekie Castle during the last winter, and the reader knows the result.

The alliance with Marie Melmotte had been arranged at Auld Reekie Castle during the last winter, and the reader knows the result.


But the affair had assumed abnormal difficulties.


Perhaps the Marquis had been wrong in flying at wealth which was reputed to be almost unlimited, but which was not absolutely fixed.


A couple of hundred thousand pounds down might have been secured with greater ease.


But here there had been a prospect of endless money,--of an inheritance which might not improbably make the Auld Reekie family conspicuous for its wealth even among the most wealthy of the nobility.


The old man had fallen into the temptation, and abnormal difficulties had been the result.


Latterly two difficulties had culminated above the others. The young lady preferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only as to the way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very existence.

But difficulties had arisen: the young lady preferred another gentleman, and disagreeable stories were afloat, not only about the way in which the money had been made, but even as to its very existence.


The Marquis, however, was a man who hated to be beaten.

The Marquis, however, hated to be beaten.


As far as he could learn from inquiry, the money would be there,--or, at least, so much money as had been promised.

As far as he could learn, the money would be there.


A considerable sum, sufficient to secure the bridegroom from absolute shipwreck,--though by no means enough to make a brilliant marriage,--had in truth been already settled on Marie, and was, indeed, in her possession.

A considerable sum had in truth been already settled on Marie.


As to that, her father had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income,--but had made over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of unforeseen accidents on 'Change, he might retire to obscure comfort, and have the means perhaps of beginning again with whitewashed cleanliness.

Her father had armed himself with a power of attorney for drawing the income, but had signed over the property to his daughter, so that in the event of unforeseen accidents he might retire to obscure comfort.


When doing this, he had doubtless not anticipated the grandeur to which he would soon rise, or the fact that he was about to embark on seas so dangerous that this little harbour of refuge would hardly offer security to his vessel.


Marie had been quite correct in her story to her favoured lover.

Marie had been quite correct in her story to Felix Carbury.


And the Marquis's lawyer had ascertained that if Marie ever married before she herself had restored this money to her father, her husband would be so far safe,--with this as a certainty and the immense remainder in prospect.

And the Marquis's lawyer had found that if Marie married before she had restored this money to her father, her husband would have this amount as a certainty, with the immense remainder in prospect.


The Marquis had determined to persevere.

Therefore the Marquis was determined to persevere.


Mr. Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds, and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding should have been fixed with the consent of all the parties.

Mr. Melmotte had been asked to depone the title-deeds, and had promised to do so as soon as the day of the wedding was fixed.


The Marquis's lawyer had ventured to express a doubt; but the Marquis had determined to persevere.


The reader will, I trust, remember that those dreadful misgivings, which are I trust agitating his own mind, have been borne in upon him by information which had not as yet reached the Marquis in all its details.


That absurd elopement, which Melmotte declared really to mean nothing,--the romance of a girl who wanted to have one little fling of her own before she settled down for life,--was perhaps his strongest objection.

That absurd elopement was perhaps his strongest objection.


Sir Felix, no doubt, had not gone with her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even attempt to run off with any one but oneself.

Sir Felix had not gone with her; but one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even attempt to run off with anyone but oneself.


"She'll be sick of him by this time, I should say," his father said to him.

"She'll be sick of him by this time," his father said.


"What does it matter, if the money's there?"


The Marquis seemed to think that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having made his arrangements so exclusively with Melmotte, instead of devoting himself to her.

The Marquis seemed to think that the escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having made his arrangements exclusively with Melmotte, instead of devoting himself to her.


Nidderdale acknowledged to himself that he had been remiss.

Nidderdale acknowledged that he had been remiss.


He told himself that she was possessed of more spirit than he had thought.

She had more spirit than he had thought.


By the Sunday evening he had determined that he would try again.

By the Sunday evening he had resolved to try again.


He had expected that the plum would fall into his mouth.

Previously, he had expected that the plum would fall into his mouth.


He would now stretch out his hand to pick it.


On the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street, at lunch time.

On the Monday he went to Bruton Street at lunch time.


Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work in the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to him.

Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work in Grosvenor Square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit.


Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe, who was to be sent for by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon,--and, after they had sat down, Marie came in.

Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe. After they had sat down, Marie came in.


Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her,--of course as though nothing had happened.

Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her, as though nothing had happened.


Marie, putting a brave face upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real difficulties, succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two.

Marie, putting a brave face upon it, with a struggle succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two.


A girl who has run away with her lover and has been brought back again by her friends, must for a time find it difficult to appear in society with ease.


But when a girl has run away without her lover,--has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing.

When a girl has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of mind must be peculiarly harassing.


But Marie's courage was good, and she ate her lunch even though she sat next to Lord Nidderdale.

But Marie's courage was good, and she ate her lunch sitting next to Lord Nidderdale.


Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord.


"Did you ever hear anything like that, Nidderdale?"


he said, speaking of the priest's visit.


I shouldn't wonder if he had been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster."


Why don't we have an Archbishop of Westminster when they've got one?


I shall have to see to that when I'm in the House.


I suppose there is a bishop, isn't there, Alfred?"


"There's a Dean, I know, for I called on him.


He told me flat he wouldn't vote for me.


I thought all those parsons were Conservatives.


It didn't occur to me that the fellow had come from the Archbishop, or I would have been more civil to him."


"Mad as a hatter;--nothing else," said Lord Alfred.

"Mad as a hatter, nothing else," said Lord Alfred.


It would have been as good as a play to you."


"I suppose you didn't ask him to the dinner, sir."


"D---- the dinner, I'm sick of it," said Melmotte, frowning.

"D___ the dinner, I'm sick of it," said Melmotte, frowning.


Those fellows will never get along if they are not looked after.


Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready at exactly a quarter before eight.

Ladies, I shall expect you to be ready at exactly a quarter to eight.


His Imperial Majesty is to arrive at eight precisely, and I must be there to receive him.

His Imperial Majesty is to arrive at eight, and I must be there to receive him.


You, Madame, will have to receive your guests in the drawing-room."


The ladies went up-stairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them.

The ladies went upstairs, and Lord Nidderdale followed them.


Miss Longestaffe soon took her departure, alleging that she couldn't keep her dear friend Lady Monogram waiting for her.

Miss Longestaffe departed to her dear friend Lady Monogram.


Then there fell upon Madame Melmotte the duty of leaving the young people together, a duty which she found a great difficulty in performing. After all that had happened, she did not know how to get up and go out of the room.

There fell upon Madame Melmotte the duty of leaving the young people together; but she did not know how to get up and go out of the room.


As regarded herself, the troubles of these troublous times were becoming almost too much for her.

The troubles of these times were almost too much for her.


She had no pleasure from her grandeur,--and probably no belief in her husband's achievements.

She had no pleasure from her grandeur, and probably no belief in her husband's achievements.


It was her present duty to assist in getting Marie married to this young man, and that duty she could only do by going away.


But she did not know how to get out of her chair.


She expressed in fluent French her abhorrence of the Emperor, and her wish that she might be allowed to remain in bed during the whole evening.


She liked Nidderdale better than any one else who came there, and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir Felix. Lord Nidderdale assured her that nothing was so easy as kings and emperors, because no one was expected to say anything. She sighed and shook her head, and wished again that she might be allowed to go to bed. Marie, who was by degrees plucking up her courage, declared that though kings and emperors were horrors as a rule, she thought an Emperor of China would be good fun. Then Madame Melmotte also plucked up her courage, rose from her chair, and made straight for the door.

She liked Nidderdale, and wondered at Marie's preference for Sir Felix; so at last she plucked up her courage, rose from her chair, and made for the door.


Madame Melmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she was being absolutely destroyed by a toothache.

Madame Melmotte, putting her handkerchief up to her face, declared that she had a toothache.


"I must see if I can't do something for her," said Marie, hurrying to the door.


But Lord Nidderdale was too quick for her, and stood with his back to it.


"Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you," said his lordship.

"Your mother has gone on purpose so that I may speak to you," he said.


"Why should you grudge me the opportunity?"


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 he not come since her return, and, at any rate, endeavoured to see her?

Why had he not tried to see her since her return?


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.

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--and had assured her that he had never intended to go.

Her father had told her that he had not gone to Liverpool - 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.

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?

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 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.

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 continued indifference,--or the cowardice which forbade him to show himself.

What she could not forgive was indifference - or cowardice.


She had more than once almost doubted his love, though as a lover he had been better than Nidderdale.

She had more than once almost doubted his love.


But now, as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing should be considered as over between them.

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. 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.

No doubt she could write to him; but 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.

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.


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.

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.


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."


"Why shouldn't I have something to say to you?"


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."

Besides, I've told you ever so often that I liked somebody else better."


"Perhaps I don't believe you when you tell me."


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."


"I don't want to make any allusion to anything that's unpleasant, Miss Melmotte."

"I don't want to make any allusion to anything unpleasant, Miss Melmotte."


Of course I went to Liverpool, and of course papa had me brought back again."

Of course I went to Liverpool, and papa had me brought back again."


"I don't think, my lord, that that can be any business of yours."

"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 might as well let me say what I've got to say."


"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 were engaged to me before you knew him, you know."


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.

Nobody in the world could break me off as long as I felt that he really loved me.


You did it just because your father told you.


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 now you've come again; because your father has told you again.


"There's a great deal of truth in what you say."


"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?


"Then you needn't;--for it isn't any good."

"Then you needn't," she said, "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."

"I should be truer to you than that fellow who wouldn't take the trouble to go down to Liverpool."


But I did not come here to say anything about that."


She asked the question with an altered tone and an altered face.

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.

"No, Marie; that's just what I ought not to do.


Do you really in your heart believe that he means to come back to you?"

Do you really believe that he means to come back to you?"


I know that you are more good-natured than he is.


I don't care what he is; I'll be true to him.


You oughtn't to go on like that because papa and mamma let you come here.


I love Sir Felix Carbury better--than any person--in all the world.

I love Sir Felix Carbury better - than any person - in all the world.


I don't know whether you call that kind, but it's true."


Good-bye, my lord; and don't come any more."


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.

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 took her to be," he said to himself.

"She's quite a different sort of girl from what I thought," he said to himself.


Marie, when the interview was over, walked about the room almost in dismay.

Marie, after this interview, 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.

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 then she could trust him for no other good quality.

Of his beauty there was no doubt; but she could have trust in no other good quality.


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.


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.

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 submitted herself to be cut in pieces for him.

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.

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 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.

"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 therefore it is that we can afford to ourselves the luxury of being friends.

"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.

It was evidently intended to imply that he had reached a time of life at which 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.

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, thinking of himself and his own circumstances, could see no reason why he should not be in love.

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;--and it is for that reason that I have come to you for advice.

"Oh, yes; that is why I have come to you for advice."


Had I been a young woman I should not have dared to ask you."


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."

"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 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."

"I was going on to say that I hoped we were not too old to - love."


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.

This was more troublesome even than the kiss.


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.

Lady Carbury even now had no inkling that the editor of the 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.

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.


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.


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.

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."


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 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 only too easily."

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 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.

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,--to be used because he knew the world.

This man was a friend, 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.

And now he showed 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.

But mixed with these feelings 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!

That such a man should offer to take half her burdens!


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.

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.


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 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 a father, and such a father, for Felix!

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!"

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?

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 after the declaration was made to her.

It all passed through her brain at once during that minute of silence which she allowed herself.


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.

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.

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.


At last the minute was over and she was bound to speak.

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.

"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, 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 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.


As I said at first, perhaps with scant gallantry, you also are not as young as you once were.

As I said, perhaps with little 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.

But you keep the beauty and energy of your youth, and the freshness of a young heart.


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."

But if you can confide your happiness with me, I am prepared to entrust mine to your keeping."


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!

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, before convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping.

And he must have surely been much blinded by love, in convincing himself that he could trust his happiness to such keeping.


You pay me a great compliment," ejaculated Lady Carbury.


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."
"You tell me so;--but I can hardly yet believe it.

It has come upon me like a dream; I can hardly yet believe it.


And then how am I to know my own feelings so suddenly?

How am I to know my own feelings so suddenly?


Marriage as I have found it, Mr. Broune, has not been happy.


I have been wounded in every joint, hurt in every nerve,--tortured till I could hardly endure my punishment.

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."


I have a son and a daughter, Mr. Broune."


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."

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 love him better,--always shall love him better,--than anything in the world."

"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 should he now be successful, time might probably change the feeling which had just been expressed.

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, "I am now so agitated that you had better leave me.

"Mr. Broune," she said, "you had better leave me.


The servant is sitting up, and will wonder that you should remain.


I will write to you,--to-morrow; say the day after to-morrow, on Thursday.

"I will write to you - tomorrow; say the day after tomorrow."


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.

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.

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 up into Mr. Broune's face with mingled impudence and surprise.

The young man looked at Mr. Broune with impudence and surprise.


"Halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping it up late here; haven't you?"

"Halloo, old fellow," he said, "you've been keeping up late, haven't you?"


He was nearly drunk, and Mr. Broune, perceiving his condition, passed him without a word.

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 scene which had just passed, full of doubt as to her future conduct, when she heard her son stumbling up the stairs.

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.


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?"


I shaw shat editor fellow at the door that won't call himself Brown.


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.

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.

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 which he had encountered at his lady love's door certainly had not tended to reassure him.

That last apparition at his lady love's door certainly did not reassure him.


What curse can be much greater than that inflicted by a drunken, reprobate son?

What curse can be greater than that inflicted by a drunken 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?

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 live under a new dominion, and fit himself to new pleasures.

He must have a new house, and new ways; must fit himself to new pleasures.


Lady Carbury was a handsome woman, and he liked her beauty.

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.

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.

He had been around long enough to know better - and 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 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 as he did so was always repressed by the memory of the appearance of that drunken young baronet.

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.

Whether for good or for evil, the step had been taken.


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.

Of course she would accept him; and of course he would stick 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.

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.

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, as being more oblivious of herself, than she had been for many a year.

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 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.

It could not be good for this man that he should marry her.


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.

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 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.

He might go utterly to the dogs and take her with him - married or single.


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.

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.

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?


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.

A repetition of marriage vows did not 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.

As to loving the man, and liking his caresses, she imagined no romance of that kind.


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.

If Felix should go to the dogs, then Mr. Broune would 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.

Should Felix go to the stars instead of the dogs, then he - and she - would not need Mr. Broune.


It was thus that she regarded the matter.


She thought very little of her daughter as she considered all this.

She thought very little of her daughter in 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?

There was a comfortable home for Hetta, if Hetta would only condescend to marry her cousin Roger.


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.

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 should she ultimately make up her mind to marry the man, and in that case the sooner this was done the better.

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.


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.

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.


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?"

The next morning she met Hetta at breakfast, and with assumed nonchalance asked, "Do you like Mr. Broune, Hetta?"


"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."


"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."

"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?

"Why should not London people be as kind as other people, Hetta?


I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as any one I know.

I think Mr. Broune is as obliging a man as anyone 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."

But the only person you seem to think well of is Mr. Montague."


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."

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.

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 endeavoured to ask himself what he would do in such a case if he himself were not personally concerned.

He asked himself what advice he would give if he 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 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 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 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 with the express purpose of enforcing the fulfilment of an engagement which Montague had often acknowledged.

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, let the cost be what it might, the engagement should be and in fact had been broken off.

He had, indeed, been told by Montague himself that the engagement had been broken off.


He thoroughly believed the man's word, but put no trust whatever in his firmness. And, hitherto, he had no reason whatever for supposing that Mrs. Hurtle had consented to be abandoned.

He believed the man, but put no trust in his firmness; and he had no reason 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.

He could not think that the man was at present fit to engage himself to another woman.


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.

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.


He had resolved upon that as he left Montague and Mrs. Hurtle together upon the sands at Lowestoft.


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!

The girl whom he loved had confessed her love for the other man - who had been, he thought, a foul traitor to himself!


That he would hold himself as divided from the man by a perpetual and undying hostility he had determined.

He regarded himself as divided from Montague by an undying hostility.


That his love for the woman would be equally perpetual he was quite sure.

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.

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.


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?


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.

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, 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.

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 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.

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,--as the page reported,--in a very bad way indeed.

"My lady" had been summoned to the hospital to see Sir Felix, who was 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.

The boy 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.

Miss Carbury was upstairs; and would no doubt see her cousin, though she too was dreadfully upset.


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.


The new trouble always has precedence over those which are of earlier date.


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."

Felix did not come home last night, and this morning there came a man from the hospital to say that he is there."


"Somebody,--somebody has,--beaten him," said Hetta whimpering.

"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.

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 messenger had gone on to say, the house surgeon had seen no reason why the young gentleman should not be taken home.

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.


Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared into her cousin's face.

Hetta had never heard of John Crumb, and simply stared at him.


"You have not been told about John Crumb?

"You have not been told about John Crumb."


"Why should John Crumb beat Felix like that?"


"They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles that occur in the world."

"They say, Hetta, that women are the cause of most troubles 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."


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.

"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 respected and happy.

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 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."

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!"


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.

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.

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."

That I fear is what Felix has thought; and now he has been punished."


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.

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.

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 was an honest man with whom she would have been safe and respected and happy!

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 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?

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, 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.

But, if so, he must speak more plainly than that.


"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.

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 very busy."

"Pray wait for her if you are not 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."

"Perhaps she would not wish me to be here when she brings Felix back to the house."


She would like you always to be here when there are troubles.

She would always like you to be here when there are troubles.


"She has written to you, has she not, about me?"


And, Hetta, Mr. Montague has written to me also."


"He told me that he would," whispered Hetta.


"You do not think that it can have been very kind, do you?

"You do not think that my answer 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."

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.


The girl then was fickle and went back from her word.

The girl was fickle and went back from her word.


I am not justified in thinking even a hard thought of you.


I have never harboured a hard thought of you.


But he,--he has been if possible more false than Felix."

But he - he has been if possible more false than Felix."


Still he was not wishful to tell her the story of Mrs. Hurtle.

Still he did not wish 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.

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."


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.


But she could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her.

Hetta could not admit that her lover had sinned in loving her.


"But, Roger," she said--"it would have been the same."

"But, Roger," she said, "the result would have been the same."


I at any rate will not contradict you when you say that it must have been so.

I will not contradict you when you say so.


He was to me as a younger brother,--and he has robbed me of everything.

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!

Hetta, I know I should never have succeeded!


My happiness would have been impossible if Paul had never come home from America.

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.


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.

Whether you are his wife, or another man's, you must always be to me the dearest creature living.


"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.

If 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?


Should I be dying, then I should send for you.


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."

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.


"If he were unworthy would your heart never change?"


"How can you trust me to answer such a question?


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!


"If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, getting up and taking him by the arm.

"If you thought him worthy you would tell me," she said, taking him by the arm.


Go to some one else, not to me;" and he tried with gentleness but tried ineffectually to disengage himself from her hold.

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.

"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 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, and I come to you as a sister comes to a brother.

I can be nothing else to you, Roger; but I love you as a sister loves a brother.


Tell me;--is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?"

Tell me; is there any reason why he should not also have my hand?"


You will not try to save me though you know that I am in danger?


"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.

I had never heard of her before Felix told me about 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.


"And she has been,--a friend of Paul's?"

"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.

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 that he is lying."

I do not think he will lie, but if he lies you will know."


"All that I can say, Hetta. You ask me to be your brother; but I cannot put myself in the place of your brother.

"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.


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.

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?"


I think sometimes that it will break mamma's heart."


"Your mother makes me angry by her continual indulgence."


You would not have her turn him into the street?"

"But you would not have her turn him into the street?"


Yes; you had better go down and let your mother know that I am here.

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."


Hetta did as she was bid, and met her mother and her brother in the hall.

Hetta went down 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.

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 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.

His face was bandaged; both his eyes were swollen and blue, and part of his beard had been cut away.


"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.


Where shall I go with this wretched boy?"


"Hurt;--of course he is hurt; horribly hurt.


They say that he will be dreadfully scarred for ever.

They say that he will be dreadfully scarred.


But oh, Hetta;--what am I to do with him?

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.

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 with some fair approach to accuracy, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied as to every detail.

She had learned the truth, though Sir Felix himself had of course lied about 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?

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.

But the policeman who had taken him to the hospital had told her all that he knew about John Crumb and Ruby 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.


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.


"It is no use telling me to leave him. I can't do that.


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.


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.


"He would have less opportunity for vice, and fewer means of running you into debt."

"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.

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 the dreariness of some French town because it was no longer possible that she should live in London with such a son as hers?

Must she give it all up and retire to some dreary French town because of her son?


There seemed to be a cruelty in this beyond all cruelties that she had hitherto endured.

This seemed to be crueller than 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.

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.

"Yes - be sent away to kill himself with drink in the bush.


As the reader knows, Roger Carbury had not latterly held this cousin of his in much esteem.

As the reader knows, Roger had not lately held Lady Carbury in much esteem.


He knew her to be worldly and he thought her to be unprincipled.

He thought her to be worldly and 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.

But now her exceeding love for her son 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.

He forgot all her little tricks 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."

"If you would like to let out your house for a period," he said, "mine is open to you.


"But, Felix?"
"You shall take him 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."

If you think that would save you, you can try it for six months."


And, Roger;--what is to be done about Hetta?"

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.

Hetta herself had retreated, so that her mother and Roger could speak freely together.


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?"


"When last he spoke to me about it he declared that the engagement was at an end.


Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that it behoves her to know the truth.

Let her tell him that she has heard of this woman from you, and that she needs to know the truth.


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."

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.

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, in spite of the protestations which he had made, to dismiss the whole family from his mind?

Would it not be better for him to dismiss the whole family from his mind?


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.

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.


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.

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 so belonging he did not recognise Paul Montague.

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.

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 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.

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 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.

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 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.

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, when they were consulted, seemed to care a straw whether Melmotte was a swindler or not.

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 or after the dinner, so long as they, with others, could show their diamonds in the presence of eastern and western royalty.

They did not care whether Melmotte was arrested at the dinner, so long as they could show their diamonds in the presence of royalty.


But yet,--what a fiasco would it be, if at this very instant of time the host should be apprehended for common forgery!

Yet what a fiasco would it be, if the host should be apprehended for common forgery!


The great thing was to ascertain whether others were going.

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!

If half stayed away, 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?

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 altogether in ignorance of the charges which were preferred against the man; but of that these doubters were unaware.

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.


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.


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.

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.


"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.


But ultimately both Lionel Lupton and Beauchamp Beauclerk attended the dinner.

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.

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 influential member of the party, were all who at last came as the political friends of the candidate for Westminster.

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.


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.


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 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 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.

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 to which he was at that moment subject, or of any embarrassment which might affect the work of the evening, he knew nothing.

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 immediate satellites around him,--among whom were included the two Grendalls, young Nidderdale, and Mr. Cohenlupe,--with a feeling of gratified glory.

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 down at the House had heard the rumour, but had determined that he would not as yet fly from his colours.

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 during the last fortnight, he had not dared to be on the wing as yet.

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.

He 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.

In the hall Miles whispered to his father.


Lord Alfred, remembering his sister's question, became almost pale, but declared that he had heard nothing.

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.

"They're saying all manner of things in the City; forgery and heaven knows what.


It was the philosophy of his life that misfortunes when they came should be allowed to settle themselves.


The grand arrivals were fairly punctual, and the very grand people all came.

The grand arrivals were 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.

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 the Ceremonies especially selected to walk backwards on this occasion.

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 their host, and the Princesses had bowed graciously.

The Princes had all shaken hands with Melmotte, and the Princesses had bowed graciously.


Nothing of the rumour had as yet been whispered in royal palaces.

Nothing of the rumour had 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.

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, under the superintendence of Lord Alfred, were received in the drawing-room above.

The remainder of the company 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.

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.

But when the company was seated at dinner the absences were unfortunately visible.


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!

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.

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. 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.

The archbishops and the bishop were there, but two or three peers were absent, and so were a poet, two painters, and a philosopher, as well as three independent members of the House of Commons.


Nearly forty places were vacant when the business of the dinner commenced.

Nearly forty places were vacant when 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.

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.


With the anxiety natural to such an occasion, he glanced repeatedly round the hall, and of course became aware that many were absent.

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?"


"Don't know," said Achates, shaking his head, steadfastly refusing to look round upon the hall.

"Don't know," said Lord Alfred, 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?

Melmotte looked round again. "Has there been some mistake about the numbers?


"Don't know," said Lord Alfred, who was unhappy in his mind, and repenting himself that he had ever seen Mr. Melmotte.

"Don't know," said Lord Alfred unhappily, wishing that he had never seen Mr. 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.

"I'll be d___ if I don't find out," said Melmotte.


"There's either some horrible blunder, or else there's been imposition.


Melmotte, in spite of royalty, was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall.

In spite of royalty, he was now sitting with his face turned round upon the hall.


"I know all their places, and I know where they were put.


He shook his head but would not, for even a moment, look round upon the room.


"And where's Mr. Killegrew,--and Sir David Boss?"

"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.


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.

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."


Melmotte looked at him with all his eyes.


"Just sit quiet and let the thing go on.


This was hardly the way to give Mr. Melmotte peace of mind.


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.

In the meantime, various Royalties ate their dinner, without observing those empty 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.

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 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.

And his neighbours 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.

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, 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.

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!"


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.


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.

said Melmotte, in a hoarse whisper, to a City friend - old Todd, of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner.


Mr. Todd was a very wealthy man, and had a considerable following in the City.


said Todd,--knowing very well who had come from the City and who had declined.

said Todd, knowing very well that he wasn't.


"No;--and the Lord Mayor's not come;--nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter.

"No - and the Lord Mayor's not come; nor Postlethwaite, nor Bunter.


Todd looked first at one neighbour and then at another before he answered.

Todd looked at his neighbours before he answered.


"I'm here, that's all I can say, Mr. Melmotte; and I've had a very good dinner."


They who haven't come, have lost a very good dinner."


There was a weight upon Melmotte's mind of which he could not rid himself.

There was a weight upon Melmotte's mind.


He knew from the old man's manner, and he knew also from Lord Alfred's manner, that there was something which each of them could tell him if he would.

He knew from old Todd's manner, and Lord Alfred's, that there was something they could tell him if they would.


But he was unable to make the men open their mouths.


And yet it might be so important to him that he should know!


"It's very odd," he said, "that gentlemen should promise to come and then stay away.


There were hundreds anxious to be present whom I should have been glad to welcome, if I had known that there would be room.

There were hundreds anxious to be present.


"It is odd," said Mr. Todd, turning his attention to the plate before him.

"It is odd," said Mr. Todd, turning his attention to his plate.


Melmotte had lately seen much of Beauchamp Beauclerk, in reference to the coming election. Passing back up the table, he found the gentleman with a vacant seat on one side of him.

Passing back up the table, Melmotte found Beauchamp Beauclerk with a vacant seat next to him.


There were many vacant seats in this part of the room, as the places for the Conservative gentlemen had been set apart together. There Mr. Melmotte seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his new ally.

There were many vacant seats in this part of the room, and Mr. Melmotte seated himself for a minute, thinking that he might get the truth from his ally in the election.


Let the cause of these desertions have been what it might, it ought to have been clear to him that he could apply no remedy to it now.

Whatever the cause of these desertions, he could apply no remedy to it now.


But he was bewildered and dismayed, and his mind within him was changing at every moment. He was now striving to trust to his arrogance and declaring that nothing should cow him. And then again he was so cowed that he was ready to creep to any one for assistance.

But he was bewildered and dismayed; and though he declared that nothing should cow him, yet he was cowed.


Personally, Mr. Beauclerk had disliked the man greatly. Among the vulgar, loud upstarts whom he had known, Melmotte was the vulgarest, the loudest, and the most arrogant.

Personally, Mr. Beauclerk disliked the man greatly, thinking him a loud and vulgar upstart.


But he had taken the business of Melmotte's election in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by Melmotte till that was over; and he was now the guest of the man in his own house, and was therefore constrained to courtesy.

But he had taken the business of Melmotte's election in hand, and considered himself bound to stand by Melmotte till that was over; and he was now the man's guest, and was constrained to courtesy.


His wife was sitting by him, and he at once introduced her to Mr. Melmotte.

His wife was sitting by him, and he introduced her to Mr. Melmotte.


"You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr. Melmotte," said the lady, looking up at the royal table.

"You have a wonderful assemblage here, Mr. Melmotte," said the lady.


His Majesty the Emperor has been pleased to intimate that he has been much gratified."

His Majesty the Emperor has said that he has been much gratified.


--Had the Emperor in truth said so, no one who looked at him could have believed his imperial word.--"Can you tell me, Mr. Beauclerk, why those other gentlemen are not here?

- Can you tell me, Mr. Beauclerk, why those other gentlemen are not here?


"Yes; Mr. Killegrew and Sir David Boss, and the whole lot.


I made a particular point of their coming.


I said I wouldn't have the dinner at all unless they were to be asked.


They were going to make it a Government thing; but I said no.


I insisted on the leaders of our own party; and now they're not here.


I know the cards were sent;--and, by George, I have their answers, saying they'd come."

I insisted on their being invited, and I know the cards were sent; and, by George, I have their answers, saying they'd come."


"I suppose some of them are engaged," said Mr. Beauclerk.


What business has a man to accept one engagement and then take another?


And, if so, why shouldn't he write and make his excuses?


"I'm here, at any rate," said Beauclerk, making the very answer that had occurred to Mr. Todd.


But what is it, Mr. Beauclerk? There's something up, and you must have heard."

There's something up. What is it, Mr. Beauclerk? You must have heard.