People have said that Napoleon was a coward, and Washington a traitor.


You must take me where I shall see Melmotte.


He is a man whose hand I would kiss; but I would not condescend to speak even a word of reverence to any of your Emperors."

- to kiss his hand; but I would not condescend to speak a word of reverence to any of your Emperors."


"I fear you will find that your idol has feet of clay."


"Ah,--you mean that he is bold in breaking those precepts of yours about coveting worldly wealth.

"Ah - you mean that he covets worldly wealth.


All men and women break that commandment, but they do so in a stealthy fashion, half drawing back the grasping hand, praying to be delivered from temptation while they filch only a little, pretending to despise the only thing that is dear to them in the world.

All men and women break that commandment, but they do so stealthily, pretending to despise what they really love.


Here is a man who boldly says that he recognises no such law; that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more a man has of wealth the greater and the stronger and the nobler he can be.

Here is a man who boldly says that wealth is power, and that power is good, and that the more wealth a man has the greater and the nobler he can be."


I love a man who can turn the hobgoblins inside out and burn the wooden bogies that he meets."


Montague had formed his own opinions about Melmotte.


Though connected with the man, he believed their Grand Director to be as vile a scoundrel as ever lived.

He believed the Grand Director to be as vile a scoundrel as ever lived.


Mrs. Hurtle's enthusiasm was very pretty, and there was something of feminine eloquence in her words.


But it was shocking to see them lavished on such a subject.

it was shocking to see it lavished on such a subject.


"Personally, I do not like him," said Paul.


"I had thought to find that you and he were hand and glove."


"But you are prospering in this business?"


It is one of those hazardous things in which a man can never tell whether he be really prosperous till he is out of it.


I fell into it altogether against my will.


"It seems to me to have been a golden chance."


"As far as immediate results go it has been golden."


And now,--now that we have got back into our old way of talking, tell me what all this means.


I have talked to no one after this fashion since we parted.


He would willingly have left her question unanswered, but she waited for an answer.


This I know, that you were sure and are sure of my love to you.


He did not doubt her, and was forced to say so.


"Oh, with what bated, half-mouthed words you speak,--fit for a girl from a nursery!

"Oh, with what half-mouthed words you speak - like a girl from a nursery!


Out with it if you have anything to say against me!


I have taken nothing from you,--if I have not taken your heart.

I have taken nothing from you - if not your heart.


I have given you all that I have to give."


Then she leaped to her feet and stood a little apart from him.


"Winifrid," he said, calling her by her name.


Yes, now for the first time, though I have called you Paul from the moment you entered the room.


At this moment Paul Montague proved that at any rate he was no coward.


Knowing the nature of the woman, how ardent, how impetuous she could be, and how full of wrath, he had come at her call intending to tell her the truth which he now spoke.


She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would commence her attack upon him.

She stood silent, looking into his face, thinking how she would begin her attack.


She fixed her eyes upon him, standing quite upright, squeezing her own right hand with the fingers of the left.

She fixed her eyes upon him, squeezing her hands together.


"Oh," she said, in a whisper;--"that is the reason why I am told that I am to be--off."

"Oh," she whispered; "that is the reason why I am told that it is - off."


"What;--can there be more reason than that,--better reason than that?


Unless, indeed, it be that as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to--hate me."

Unless, indeed, as you have learned to love another so also you have learned to hate me."


How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that it was on your tongue to tell me I was to be cast aside?

How did you dare to kiss me, knowing that you were about to tell me I was to be cast aside?


I am too old to please you, too rough,--too little like the dolls of your own country!

I am too old to please you, too rough, too little like the dolls of your own country!


Let me hear your--other reasons, that I may tell you that they are lies."

Let me hear your other reasons, so that I may tell you that they are lies."


The reasons were very difficult to tell, though when put forward by Roger Carbury they had been easily pleaded.

The reasons were very difficult to tell.


Paul knew but little about Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle.

Paul knew little about Winifrid Hurtle, and nothing at all about the late Mr. Hurtle.


His reasons curtly put forward might have been so stated.


"We know too little of each other," he said.


As to my knowledge of you and your affairs, if I think it sufficient, need you complain?


You knew when you gave me your word that I had next to none.


If you wish to hear of the wretch that was my husband, I will deluge you with stories.


I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of one--who perhaps was loved once."

I should have thought that a man who loved would not have cared to hear much of that."


He knew that his position was perfectly indefensible.

He knew that his position was indefensible.


It would have been better for him not to have alluded to any reasons, but to have remained firm to his assertion that he loved another woman.

It would have been better for him not to have alluded to any other reasons, but to have stuck to his assertion that he loved another woman.


He must have acknowledged himself to be false, perjured, inconstant, and very base.


A fault that may be venial to those who do not suffer, is damnable, deserving of an eternity of tortures, in the eyes of the sufferer.


He must have submitted to be told that he was a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever of punishment a lady in her wrath could inflict upon him.

a fiend, and might have had to endure whatever punishment an angry lady could inflict upon him.


But he would have been called upon for no further mental effort.


"Then why tell me that we know so little of each other?


That, surely, is a poor excuse to make to a woman,--after you have been false to her.

That is a poor excuse to make to a woman - after you have been false to her.


Why did you not say that when we were in New York together?

Why did you not say that when we were in New York?


"No;--a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always.

"No; a man will lie to a woman, and justify it always.


He knew that he could not at any rate be warranted in mentioning Hetta Carbury's name.

He knew that he could not mention Hetta Carbury's name.


He had never even asked her for her love, and certainly had received no assurance that he was loved.

He had never asked her for her love, and had received no assurance that he was loved.


"And I, who have come hither from California to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have--changed your affections?

"And I, who have come from California to see you, am to return satisfied because you tell me that you have changed your affections?


That is to be all, and you think that fair?


That suits your own mind, and leaves no sore spot in your heart?


You can do that, and shake hands with me, and go away,--without a pang, without a scruple?"

You can shake hands with me, and go away without a pang?"


"And you are the man who cannot bear to hear me praise Augustus Melmotte because you think him dishonest!


"Do you now refuse to keep your promise?"


It would have taken him long to explain to her, even had he been able, that a man may break a promise and yet not tell a lie.

It would have taken him long to explain that a man may break a promise and yet not tell a lie.


He had made up his mind to break his engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, and therefore he could not accuse himself of falseness on her account.

He had made up his mind to break his engagement before he had seen Hetta Carbury, because of


He had been brought to his resolution by the rumours he had heard of her past life, and as to his uncertainty about her husband.

the rumours he had heard of Mrs. Hurtle's past life, and his uncertainty about her husband.


If Mr. Hurtle were alive, certainly then he would not be a liar because he did not marry Mrs. Hurtle.


He did not think himself to be a liar, but he was not at once ready with his defence.


"Oh, Paul," she said, changing at once into softness,--"I am pleading to you for my life.

"Oh, Paul," she said, changing into softness, "I am pleading for my life!


Oh, that I could make you feel that I am pleading for my life.


Have you given a promise to this lady also?"


And you would put her against me,--some woman who has nothing to suffer, no cause of complaint, who, for aught you know, cares nothing for you.

And you would put her against me,- some woman who has nothing to suffer, who, for all you know, cares nothing for you.


Will any woman love you as I do;--live for you as I do?

Will any woman love you as I do - live for you as I do?


Think what I have done in coming here, where I have no friend,--not a single friend,--unless you are a friend.

I have come here without a single friend.


I have told the woman here that I am engaged to marry you."


Am I to have you to visit me here, and to risk her insults, perhaps to be told to take myself off and to find accommodation elsewhere, because I am too mealy-mouthed to tell the truth as to the cause of my being here?

Am I to have you visit, and to risk her insults, and perhaps be told to take myself off?


I am here because you have promised to make me your wife, and, as far as I am concerned, I am not ashamed to have the fact advertised in every newspaper in the town.

I am here because you promised to make me your wife, and I am not ashamed of the fact.


I told her that I was the promised wife of one Paul Montague, who was joined with Mr. Melmotte in managing the new great American railway, and that Mr. Paul Montague would be with me this morning.


She was too far-seeing to doubt me, but had she doubted, I could have shown her your letters.

If she had doubted me, I could have shown her your letters.


Now go and tell her that what I have said is false,--if you dare."

Now go and tell her that what I said is false - if you dare."


The woman was not there, and it did not seem to be his immediate duty to leave the room in order that he might denounce a lady whom he certainly had ill-used.

Paul felt he could hardly leave the room in order to denounce a lady whom he had certainly ill-used.


The position was one which required thought.


He needed to think; and he took up his hat to go.


"Do you mean to tell her that my statement is untrue?"


Remember all our love,--and be good to me."

Remember all our love - and be good to me."


Then she let him go without another word.


Something of herself and condition Lady Carbury has told the reader in the letters given in the former chapter, but more must be added.


She has declared she had been cruelly slandered; but she has also shown that she was not a woman whose words about herself could be taken with much confidence.


If the reader does not understand so much from her letters to the three editors they have been written in vain.


She has been made to say that her object in work was to provide for the need of her children, and that with that noble purpose before her she was struggling to make for herself a career in literature.


Detestably false as had been her letters to the editors, absolutely and abominably foul as was the entire system by which she was endeavouring to achieve success, far away from honour and honesty as she had been carried by her ready subserviency to the dirty things among which she had lately fallen, nevertheless her statements about herself were substantially true.

Dishonest as were Lady Carbury's letters to the editors, and the system by which she was trying to achieve success, nevertheless her statements about herself were largely true.


She was true to her children,--especially devoted to one of them,--and was ready to work her nails off if by doing so she could advance their interests.

She was devoted to her children - one of them especially - and was ready to work her nails off to advance their interests.


She was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who many years since had done great things as a soldier in India, and had been thereupon created a baronet.

She was the widow of one Sir Patrick Carbury, who had done great things as a soldier in India, and had been made a baronet.


He had married a young wife late in life and, having found out when too late that he had made a mistake, had occasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill used her.

He had married a young wife late in life and, having found out too late that he had made a mistake, had occasionally spoilt his darling and occasionally ill-used her.


In doing each he had done it abundantly.


Among Lady Carbury's faults had never been that of even incipient,--not even of sentimental infidelity to her husband.


When as a very lovely and penniless girl of eighteen she had consented to marry a man of forty-four who had the spending of a large income, she had made up her mind to abandon all hope of that sort of love which poets describe and which young people generally desire to experience.

when as a very lovely and penniless girl of eighteen she had consented to marry a wealthy man of forty-four, she had made up her mind to abandon all hope of romantic love.


Sir Patrick at the time of his marriage was red-faced, stout, bald, very choleric, generous in money, suspicious in temper, and intelligent.

Sir Patrick was red-faced, stout, bald, short-tempered, generous in money, suspicious and intelligent.


He was a man who might be loved;--but he was hardly a man for love.

He was a man who might be loved; but he was hardly a man for love.


The young Lady Carbury had understood her position and had determined to do her duty.


She had resolved before she went to the altar that she would never allow herself to flirt and she had never flirted.


For fifteen years things had gone tolerably well with her,--by which it is intended that the reader should understand that they had so gone that she had been able to tolerate them.

For fifteen years her marriage had been tolerable.


They had been home in England for three or four years, and then Sir Patrick had returned with some new and higher appointment.


For fifteen years, though he had been passionate, imperious, and often cruel, he had never been jealous.


A boy and a girl had been born to them, to whom both father and mother had been over indulgent;--but the mother, according to her lights, had endeavoured to do her duty by them.

A boy and a girl had been born, to whom both father and mother had been over-indulgent.


But from the commencement of her life she had been educated in deceit, and her married life had seemed to make the practice of deceit necessary to her.

Lady Carbury was clever, educated, and beautiful.


Her mother had run away from her father, and she had been tossed to and fro between this and that protector, sometimes being in danger of wanting any one to care for her, till she had been made sharp, incredulous, and untrustworthy by the difficulties of her position.


But she was clever, and had picked up an education and good manners amidst the difficulties of her childhood,--and had been beautiful to look at.


To marry and have the command of money, to do her duty correctly, to live in a big house and be respected, had been her ambition,--and during the first fifteen years of her married life she was successful amidst great difficulties.

To do her duty correctly, to live in a big house and be respected, had been her ambition - and during the first fifteen years of her married life she was successful amidst great difficulties.


But she had all her life been educated in deceit, and her married life had seemed to make the practice of deceit necessary. She would smile within five minutes of violent ill-usage.


Her husband would even strike her,--and the first effort of her mind would be given to conceal the fact from all the world.

Her husband would strike her - and her first reaction would be to conceal the fact from all the world.
For fifteen years, though Sir Patrick had been imperious and often cruel, he had never been jealous.


In latter years he drank too much, and she struggled hard first to prevent the evil, and then to prevent and to hide the ill effects of the evil.

But in later years he drank too much, and she struggled hard first to prevent the evil, and then to hide its ill effects.


But in doing all this she schemed, and lied, and lived a life of manoeuvres.

But in doing this she schemed, and lied.


Then, at last, when she felt that she was no longer quite a young woman, she allowed herself to attempt to form friendships for herself, and among her friends was one of the other sex.

Then, at last, when she was no longer quite a young woman, she attempted to form friendships for herself, and among her friends was one of the other sex.


If fidelity in a wife be compatible with such friendship, if the married state does not exact from a woman the necessity of debarring herself from all friendly intercourse with any man except her lord, Lady Carbury was not faithless.


But Sir Carbury became jealous, spoke words which even she could not endure, did things which drove even her beyond the calculations of her prudence,--and she left him.

But Sir Patrick became jealous, spoke words which even she could not endure - and she left him.


But even this she did in so guarded a way that, as to every step she took, she could prove her innocence.


Her life at that period is of little moment to our story, except that it is essential that the reader should know in what she had been slandered.

Her life at that time is of little importance to our story, except that the reader should know how she had been slandered.


For a month or two all hard words had been said against her by her husband's friends, and even by Sir Patrick himself.

For a month or two hard words had been said against her by Sir Patrick and his friends.


But gradually the truth was known, and after a year's separation they came again together and she remained the mistress of his house till he died.

But gradually the truth was known, and after a year's separation they came together again. She remained the mistress of his house till he died.


She brought him home to England, but during the short period left to him of life in his old country he had been a worn-out, dying invalid.

She brought him home to England when he had become a worn-out invalid.


But the scandal of her great misfortune had followed her, and some people were never tired of reminding others that in the course of her married life Lady Carbury had run away from her husband, and had been taken back again by the kind-hearted old gentleman.

But scandal had followed her, and some people were never tired of reminding others that Lady Carbury had once run away from her husband, and had been taken back again by the kind-hearted old gentleman.


Sir Patrick had left behind him a moderate fortune, though by no means great wealth.

Sir Patrick left a moderate fortune, though by no means great wealth.


To his son, who was now Sir Felix Carbury, he had left 1,000 a year; and to his widow as much, with a provision that after her death the latter sum should be divided between his son and daughter.

To his son, Sir Felix Carbury, he had left 1,000 a year; and to his widow the same, to be divided between his son and daughter after her death.


It therefore came to pass that the young man, who had already entered the army when his father died, and upon whom devolved no necessity of keeping a house, and who in fact not unfrequently lived in his mother's house, had an income equal to that with which his mother and his sister were obliged to maintain a roof over their head.

The young man was in the army when his father died, and, needing no home of his own, often lived in his mother's house. Yet he now had an income equal to that with which his mother and sister had to keep a roof over their head.


Now Lady Carbury, when she was released from her thraldom at the age of forty, had no idea at all of passing her future life amidst the ordinary penances of widowhood.

Now Lady Carbury, when she was widowed at the age of forty, did not intend to pass her future life in grieving.


She had hitherto endeavoured to do her duty, knowing that in accepting her position she was bound to take the good and the bad together.

She had endeavoured to do her duty, taking the good and the bad together.


She had certainly encountered hitherto much that was bad.

She had certainly encountered much that was bad.


To be scolded, watched, beaten, and sworn at by a choleric old man till she was at last driven out of her house by the violence of his ill-usage; to be taken back as a favour with the assurance that her name would for the remainder of her life be unjustly tarnished; to have her flight constantly thrown in her face; and then at last to become for a year or two the nurse of a dying debauchee, was a high price to pay for such good things as she had hitherto enjoyed.

To be scolded, beaten, and sworn at by a choleric old man till she was at last driven out of her house by his violence; to be taken back as a favour with the assurance that her name would be tarnished for the rest of her life; to have her flight constantly thrown in her face; and then at last to become his nurse, was a high price to pay for the good things she had enjoyed.


Now at length had come to her a period of relaxation--her reward, her freedom, her chance of happiness.

Now at length had come her reward, her freedom, her chance of happiness.


She thought much about herself, and resolved on one or two things.


The time for love had gone by, and she would have nothing to do with it.

that she would have nothing to do with love.


Nor would she marry again for convenience.


But she would have friends,--real friends; friends who could help her,--and whom possibly she might help.

But she would have friends - real friends, who could help her, and whom possibly she might help.


She would, too, make some career for herself, so that life might not be without an interest to her.


She would live in London, and would become somebody at any rate in some circle.

and live in London, and become somebody in some circle.


Accident at first rather than choice had thrown her among literary people, but that accident had, during the last two years, been supported and corroborated by the desire which had fallen upon her of earning money.


She had known from the first that economy would be necessary to her,--not chiefly or perhaps not at all from a feeling that she and her daughter could not live comfortably together on a thousand a year,--but on behalf of her son.

She had known from the first that economy was necessary - not for herself and her daughter, but on behalf of her son.


She wanted no luxury but a house so placed that people might conceive of her that she lived in a proper part of the town.


Of her daughter's prudence she was as well convinced as of her own.

Of her daughter's prudence she was convinced.


She could trust Henrietta in everything.


But her son, Sir Felix, was not very trustworthy.


And yet Sir Felix was the darling of her heart.


At the time of the writing of the three letters, at which our story is supposed to begin, she was driven very hard for money.

At the time of the writing of the three letters, she was driven very hard for money.


Sir Felix was then twenty-five, had been in a fashionable regiment for four years, had already sold out, and, to own the truth at once, had altogether wasted the property which his father had left him.

Sir Felix was then twenty-five, had sold out from his regiment, and, to tell the truth, had altogether wasted the property which his father had left him.


So much the mother knew,--and knew, therefore, that with her limited income she must maintain not only herself and daughter, but also the baronet.

The mother knew that she must maintain the young baronet.


She did not know, however, the amount of the baronet's obligations;--nor, indeed, did he, or any one else.

She did not know, however, the amount of his debts - nor, indeed, did he.


A baronet, holding a commission in the Guards, and known to have had a fortune left him by his father, may go very far in getting into debt; and Sir Felix had made full use of all his privileges.


He had become a burden on his mother so heavy,--and on his sister also,--that their life had become one of unavoidable embarrassments.

He had become so heavy a burden on his mother and sister that their life had become full of unavoidable embarrassments.


But not for a moment had either of them ever quarrelled with him.

But neither of them ever quarrelled with Sir Felix.


Henrietta had been taught by the conduct of both father and mother that every vice might be forgiven in a man and in a son, though every virtue was expected from a woman, and especially from a daughter.

Henrietta had been taught by her parents' conduct that every vice might be forgiven in a man, though every virtue was expected from a woman.


The lesson had come to her so early in life that she had learned it without the feeling of any grievance.


She lamented her brother's evil conduct as it affected him, but she pardoned it altogether as it affected herself.


That all her interests in life should be made subservient to him was natural to her; and when she found that her little comforts were discontinued, and her moderate expenses curtailed because he, having eaten up all that was his own, was now eating up also all that was his mother's, she never complained.

It seemed natural to her that her interests should be subservient to her brother's; and when she found that her little comforts were curtailed because he, having eaten up all that was his own, was now eating up all that was his mother's, she never complained.


Henrietta had been taught to think that men in that rank of life in which she had been born always did eat up everything.

Henrietta had been taught to think that men always did eat up everything.


The mother's feeling was less noble,--or perhaps, it might better be said, more open to censure.

The mother's feeling was more open to blame.


The boy, who had been beautiful as a star, had ever been the cynosure of her eyes, the one thing on which her heart had rivetted itself.


Even during the career of his folly she had hardly ventured to say a word to him with the purport of stopping him on his road to ruin.

Even on his road to ruin she had hardly said a word to stop him.


In everything she had spoilt him as a boy, and in everything she still spoilt him as a man.

She had spoilt him as a boy, and she spoilt him as a man.


She was almost proud of his vices, and had taken delight in hearing of doings which if not vicious of themselves had been ruinous from their extravagance.

She was almost proud of his vices and extravagances.


She had so indulged him that even in her own presence he was never ashamed of his own selfishness or apparently conscious of the injustice which he did to others.

She had so indulged him that he was never ashamed of his selfishness or conscious of the injustice which he did to others.


From all this it had come to pass that that dabbling in literature which had been commenced partly perhaps from a sense of pleasure in the work, partly as a passport into society, had been converted into hard work by which money if possible might be earned.

Because of this, Lady Carbury's dabbling in literature had become hard work by which money might be earned.


So that Lady Carbury when she wrote to her friends, the editors, of her struggles was speaking the truth.

When she wrote to the editors of her struggles, she was speaking the truth.


Tidings had reached her of this and the other man's success, and,--coming near to her still,--of this and that other woman's earnings in literature.

Other women made good earnings from literature.


And it had seemed to her that, within moderate limits, she might give a wide field to her hopes.


Why should she not add a thousand a year to her income, so that Felix might again live like a gentleman and marry that heiress who, in Lady Carbury's look-out into the future, was destined to make all things straight!

Why should she not add a thousand a year to her income, so that Felix might again live like a gentleman and marry an heiress?


Who had more of that audacity which is the chief thing necessary to the winning of heiresses?


And then he could make his wife Lady Carbury.


If only enough money might be earned to tide over the present evil day, all might be well.

If only enough money might be earned to tide her over the present evil day, all might be well.


The one most essential obstacle to the chance of success in all this was probably Lady Carbury's conviction that her end was to be obtained not by producing good books, but by inducing certain people to say that her books were good.

However, Lady Carbury was convinced that she would achieve success not by producing good books, but by persuading people to say that her books were good.


She did work hard at what she wrote,--hard enough at any rate to cover her pages quickly; and was, by nature, a clever woman.

She worked hard and wrote quickly; and was a clever woman.


She could write after a glib, common-place, sprightly fashion, and had already acquired the knack of spreading all she knew very thin, so that it might cover a vast surface.

She wrote with a glib, sprightly style, and had acquired the knack of spreading all she knew very thin, so that it might cover a vast surface.


She had no ambition to write a good book, but was painfully anxious to write a book that the critics should say was good.


Had Mr. Broune, in his closet, told her that her book was absolutely trash, but had undertaken at the same time to have it violently praised in the "Breakfast Table," it may be doubted whether the critic's own opinion would have even wounded her vanity.


The woman was false from head to foot, but there was much of good in her, false though she was.

The woman was false from head to foot, yet there was much of good in her.


Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was solely by bad training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say?

Whether Sir Felix, her son, had become what he was by bad training, or whether he had been born bad, who shall say?


It is hardly possible that he should not have been better had he been taken away as an infant and subjected to moral training by moral teachers.


And yet again it is hardly possible that any training or want of training should have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling for others as was his.

Surely any lack of training could not have produced a heart so utterly incapable of feeling.


He could not even feel his own misfortunes unless they touched the outward comforts of the moment.

He could not even feel his own misfortunes unless they touched his outward comforts.


It seemed that he lacked sufficient imagination to realise future misery though the futurity to be considered was divided from the present but by a single month, a single week,--but by a single night.

He lacked the imagination to think of future misery even a month ahead, or a week - or a single night.


He liked to be kindly treated, to be praised and petted, to be well fed and caressed; and they who so treated him were his chosen friends.

He liked to be kindly treated, to be praised and petted and well fed;


He had in this the instincts of a horse, not approaching the higher sympathies of a dog.

in this he had the instincts of a horse, not even the higher sympathies of a dog.


But it cannot be said of him that he had ever loved any one to the extent of denying himself a moment's gratification on that loved one's behalf.

He had never loved anyone enough to deny himself a moment's gratification.


But he was beautiful to look at, ready-witted, and intelligent.


He was very dark, with that soft olive complexion which so generally gives to young men an appearance of aristocratic breeding.


His hair, which was never allowed to become long, was nearly black, and was soft and silky without that taint of grease which is so common with silken-headed darlings.

His hair was nearly black, soft and silky.


His eyes were long, brown in colour, and were made beautiful by the perfect arch of the perfect eyebrow.

His eyes were long and brown, made beautiful by the perfect arch of the eyebrow.


But perhaps the glory of the face was due more to the finished moulding and fine symmetry of the nose and mouth than to his other features.

But perhaps the glory of the face was in the fine moulding of the nose and mouth.


On his short upper lip he had a moustache as well formed as his eyebrows, but he wore no other beard.

He had a well-formed moustache, but no beard


The form of his chin too was perfect, but it lacked that sweetness and softness of expression, indicative of softness of heart, which a dimple conveys.


He was about five feet nine in height, and was as excellent in figure as in face.

He was as excellent in figure as in face.


It was admitted by men and clamorously asserted by women that no man had ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admitted also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty.

It was admitted by men and asserted by women that no man had ever been more handsome than Felix Carbury, and it was admitted also that he never showed consciousness of his beauty.


He had given himself airs on many scores;--on the score of his money, poor fool, while it lasted; on the score of his title; on the score of his army standing till he lost it; and especially on the score of superiority in fashionable intellect.

He gave himself airs on many scores; his money, his title, and his intellect.


But he had been clever enough to dress himself always with simplicity and to avoid the appearance of thought about his outward man.

But he was clever enough to dress simply and avoid the appearance of vanity.


As yet the little world of his associates had hardly found out how callous were his affections,--or rather how devoid he was of affection.

As yet, his associates had hardly found out how devoid he was of affection.


His airs and his appearance, joined with some cleverness, had carried him through even the viciousness of his life.


In one matter he had marred his name, and by a moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends more than he had done by the folly of three years.

In one matter he had marred his name, and by a moment's weakness had injured his character among his friends.


There had been a quarrel between him and a brother officer, in which he had been the aggressor; and, when the moment came in which a man's heart should have produced manly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white feather.

He had started a quarrel with a brother officer; and when he should have acted with manly conduct, he had first threatened and had then shown the white feather.


That was now a year since, and he had partly outlived the evil;--but some men still remembered that Felix Carbury had been cowed, and had cowered.

That was now a year since, but men still remembered that Felix Carbury had cowered.


It was now his business to marry an heiress.


He was well aware that it was so, and was quite prepared to face his destiny.


But he lacked something in the art of making love.


He was beautiful, had the manners of a gentleman, could talk well, lacked nothing of audacity, and had no feeling of repugnance at declaring a passion which he did not feel.

He had the manners of a gentleman, could talk well, and felt no repugnance at declaring a passion he did not feel.


But he knew so little of the passion, that he could hardly make even a young girl believe that he felt it.


When he talked of love, he not only thought that he was talking nonsense, but showed that he thought so.

love, that when he talked of it he showed that he thought it was nonsense.


From this fault he had already failed with one young lady reputed to have 40,000, who had refused him because, as she naively said, she knew "he did not really care."

Due to this fault he had already failed with one young lady, who had refused him because "he did not really care."


"How can I show that I care more than by wishing to make you my wife?"


"I don't know that you can, but all the same you don't care," she said.


And so that young lady escaped the pit-fall.


Now there was another young lady, to whom the reader shall be introduced in time, whom Sir Felix was instigated to pursue with unremitting diligence.

Now there was another young lady whom Sir Felix was urged to pursue.


Her wealth was not defined, as had been the 40,000 of her predecessor, but was known to be very much greater than that.


It was, indeed, generally supposed to be fathomless, bottomless, endless.

It was, indeed, generally supposed to be endless,


It was said that in regard to money for ordinary expenditure, money for houses, servants, horses, jewels, and the like, one sum was the same as another to the father of this young lady.


He had great concerns;--concerns so great that the payment of ten or twenty thousand pounds upon any trifle was the same thing to him,--as to men who are comfortable in their circumstances it matters little whether they pay sixpence or ninepence for their mutton chops.

had such great concerns in business that ten or twenty thousand pounds was but a trifle to him.


Such a man may be ruined at any time; but there was no doubt that to any one marrying his daughter during the present season of his outrageous prosperity he could give a very large fortune indeed.

Such a man may be ruined at any time; but there was no doubt that to anyone marrying his daughter during his present outrageous prosperity he could give a very large fortune indeed.


Lady Carbury, who had known the rock on which her son had been once wrecked, was very anxious that Sir Felix should at once make a proper use of the intimacy which he had effected in the house of this topping Croesus of the day.

Lady Carbury was very anxious that Sir Felix should pursue this magnate's daughter.


And now there must be a few words said about Henrietta Carbury.


Of course she was of infinitely less importance than her brother, who was a baronet, the head of that branch of the Carburys, and her mother's darling; and, therefore, a few words should suffice.

Of course she was of infinitely less importance than her brother, so a few words should suffice.


She also was very lovely, being like her brother; but somewhat less dark and with features less absolutely regular.

She was very lovely, like her brother; though less dark and with less regular features.


But she had in her countenance a full measure of that sweetness of expression which seems to imply that consideration of self is subordinated to consideration for others.

But her face had a sweetness of expression


This sweetness was altogether lacking to her brother.


And her face was a true index of her character.


Again, who shall say why the brother and sister had become so opposite to each other; whether they would have been thus different had both been taken away as infants from their father's and mother's training, or whether the girl's virtues were owing altogether to the lower place which she had held in her parent's heart?

Again, who shall say why the brother and sister had become so opposite to each other?


She, at any rate, had not been spoilt by a title, by the command of money, and by the temptations of too early acquaintance with the world.

She, at any rate, had not been spoilt by a title, and by the temptations of money and society.


At the present time she was barely twenty-one years old, and had not seen much of London society.

At present she was twenty-one, and had not seen much of London society.


Her mother did not frequent balls, and during the last two years there had grown upon them a necessity for economy which was inimical to many gloves and costly dresses.

Her mother did not go to balls, and the need for economy had not allowed for gloves and costly dresses.


Sir Felix went out of course, but Hetta Carbury spent most of her time at home with her mother in Welbeck Street.

Sir Felix went out of course, but Hetta Carbury spent most of her time at home.


Occasionally the world saw her, and when the world did see her the world declared that she was a charming girl.

Occasionally the world saw her, and declared that she was a charming girl.


But for Henrietta Carbury the romance of life had already commenced in real earnest.

But for Henrietta Carbury romance had already commenced in earnest.


There was another branch of the Carburys, the head branch, which was now represented by one Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall.

There was another branch of the Carburys, the head branch, which was represented by one Roger Carbury, of Carbury Hall


Roger Carbury was a gentleman of whom much will have to be said, but here, at this moment, it need only be told that he was passionately in love with his cousin Henrietta.

: a gentlemen of which, at this moment, it need only be said that he was passionately in love with his cousin Henrietta.


He was, however, nearly forty years old, and there was one Paul Montague whom Henrietta had seen.


Mrs. Hurtle had consented at the joint request of Mrs. Pipkin and John Crumb to postpone her journey to New York and to go down to Bungay and grace the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any love for the persons concerned, not so much even from any desire to witness a phase of English life, as from an irresistible tenderness towards Paul Montague.

Mrs. Hurtle had postponed her journey to New York to go to Bungay for the marriage of Ruby Ruggles, not so much from any love for the persons concerned, as from an irresistible tenderness towards Paul Montague.


She not only longed to see him once again, but she could with difficulty bring herself to leave the land in which he was living.

She longed to see him once again, and found it difficult to leave the land in which he was living.


She had condoned his treachery to her,--and for his sake had even been kind to the rival who had taken her place.


And then, though, in all her very restricted intercourse with such English people as she met, she never ceased to ridicule things English, yet she dreaded a return to her own country.


In her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat stupid tranquillity of the life she saw, comparing it with the rough tempests of her past days.

in her heart of hearts she liked the somewhat stupid tranquillity of life in England compared to the rough tempests of her past days.


Mrs. Pipkin, she thought, was less intellectual than any American woman she had ever known; and she was quite sure that no human being so heavy, so slow, and so incapable of two concurrent ideas as John Crumb had ever been produced in the United States;--but, nevertheless, she liked Mrs. Pipkin, and almost loved John Crumb.

She even liked Mrs. Pipkin, and almost loved John Crumb.


How different would her life have been could she have met a man who would have been as true to her as John Crumb was to his Ruby!

How different would her life have been if she had met a man as true as John Crumb!


She loved Paul Montague with all her heart, and she despised herself for loving him.


How weak he was;--how inefficient; how unable to seize glorious opportunities; how swathed and swaddled by scruples and prejudices;--how unlike her own countrymen in quickness of apprehension and readiness of action!

How weak he was; how inefficient; how swathed in scruples and prejudices!


But yet she loved him for his very faults, telling herself that there was something sweeter in his English manners than in all the smart intelligence of her own land.

Yet she loved him for his very faults, finding something sweet in his English manners.


The man had been false to her,--false as hell; had sworn to her and had broken his oath; had ruined her whole life; had made everything blank before her by his treachery!


But then she also had not been quite true with him.

but then she had not been quite true with him.


She had not at first meant to deceive;--nor had he.


They had played a game against each other; and he, with all the inferiority of his intellect to weigh him down, had won,--because he was a man.

They had played a game against each other; and he had won - because he was a man.


She had much time for thinking, and she thought much about these things.


He could change his love as often as he pleased, and be as good a lover at the end as ever;--whereas she was ruined by his defection.

He could change his love as often as he pleased, whereas she was ruined by his defection.


He could look about for a fresh flower and boldly seek his honey; whereas she could only sit and mourn for the sweets of which she had been rifled.

He could look about for a fresh flower and boldly seek his honey; whereas she could only sit and mourn for the sweets of which she had been robbed.


She was not quite sure that such mourning would not be more bitter to her in California than in Mrs. Pipkin's solitary lodgings at Islington.


"So he was Mr. Montague's partner,--was he now?"

"So Mr. Fisker was Mr. Montague's partner, was he?"


asked Mrs. Pipkin a day or two after their return from the Crumb marriage.


For Mr. Fisker had called on Mrs. Hurtle, and Mrs. Hurtle had told Mrs. Pipkin so much.

For Mr. Fisker had called on Mrs. Hurtle.


"To my thinking now he's a nicer man than Mr. Montague."

"I think he's a nicer man than Mr. Montague."


Mrs. Pipkin perhaps thought that as her lodger had lost one partner she might be anxious to secure the other;--perhaps felt, too, that it might be well to praise an American at the expense of an Englishman.


"There's no accounting for tastes, Mrs. Pipkin."


"I always did say that of him, Mrs. Hurtle."


"And Mr. Fisker is--an American citizen."

"And Mr. Fisker is - an American citizen.


Mrs. Hurtle when she said this was very far gone in tenderness.


said Mrs. Pipkin, who did not in the least understand the meaning of her friend's last remark.


"Mr. Fisker came to me with tidings from San Francisco which I had not heard before, and has offered to take me back with him."

He came to me with news from San Francisco, and has offered to take me back with him.


Mrs. Pipkin's apron was immediately at her eyes.


I couldn't hope as you'd stay here always.

I couldn't hope as you'd stay here always, Mrs. Hurtle," said Mrs. Pipkin, starting to weep.


I never shall forget the comfort it's been.


There hasn't been a week without everything settled; and most ladylike,--most ladylike!


You seem to me, Mrs. Hurtle, just as though you had the bank in your pocket."


All this the poor woman said, moved by her sorrow to speak the absolute truth.


"Mr. Fisker isn't in any way a special friend of mine.


But I hear that he will be taking other ladies with him, and I fancy I might as well join the party.

will be taking other ladies with him, and I might as well join the party.


It will be less dull for me, and I shall prefer company just at present for many reasons.


We shall start on the first of September."


As this was said about the middle of August there was still some remnant of comfort for poor Mrs. Pipkin.


A fortnight gained was something; and as Mr. Fisker had come to England on business, and as business is always uncertain, there might possibly be further delay.


Then Mrs. Hurtle made a further communication to Mrs. Pipkin, which, though not spoken till the latter lady had her hand on the door, was, perhaps, the one thing which Mrs. Hurtle had desired to say.

Mrs. Hurtle added, with her hand on the door,


"By-the-bye, Mrs. Pipkin, I expect Mr. Montague to call to-morrow at eleven.

"By-the-bye, Mrs. Pipkin, I expect Mr. Montague to call tomorrow at eleven.


She had feared that unless some such instructions were given, there might be a little scene at the door when the gentleman came.


Then Mrs. Pipkin went away abashed,--feeling that she had made a great mistake in preferring any other man to Mr. Montague, if, after all, recent difficulties were to be adjusted.


On the following morning Mrs. Hurtle dressed herself with almost more than her usual simplicity, but certainly with not less than her usual care, and immediately after breakfast seated herself at her desk, nursing an idea that she would work as steadily for the next hour as though she expected no special visitor.

On the following morning Mrs. Hurtle dressed herself with more than her usual simplicity, but certainly no less than her usual care, and sat at her desk,


Of course she did not write a word of the task which she had prescribed to herself.


Of course she was disturbed in her mind, though she had dictated to herself absolute quiescence.

although she was too disturbed in her mind to work.


She almost knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see him.

She knew that she had been wrong even to desire to see him.


She had forgiven him, and what more was there to be said?

She had forgiven him, and had seen the girl, and what more was to be said?


She had seen the girl, and had in some fashion approved of her.


Her curiosity had been satisfied, and her love of revenge had been sacrificed.


She had no plan arranged as to what she would now say to him, nor did she at this moment attempt to make a plan.

She had not planned what she would now say to him.


She could tell him that she was about to return to San Francisco with Fisker, but she did not know that she had anything else to say.


Her heart leaped within her, and she made a last great effort to be tranquil.


She heard the steps on the stairs, and then the door was opened and Mr. Montague was announced by Mrs. Pipkin herself.

She heard the steps on the stairs, and then the door was opened and Mr. Montague was announced.


Mrs. Pipkin, however, quite conquered by a feeling of gratitude to her lodger, did not once look in through the door, nor did she pause a moment to listen at the keyhole.


"I thought you would come and see me once again before I went," said Mrs. Hurtle, not rising from her sofa, but putting out her hand to greet him.

"I thought you would come and see me once again before I went," said Mrs. Hurtle, putting out her hand to greet him.


"Sit there opposite, so that we can look at one another.


"I hope it has not been a trouble to you."


"Of course I came when you left word for me to do so."


"I certainly should not have expected it from any wish of your own."


"I should not have dared to come, had you not bade me.

"I should not have dared to come, had you not asked me.


"I know nothing of the kind;--but as you are here we will not quarrel as to your motives.

"I know nothing of the kind; but as you are here we will not quarrel about it.


She only wanted to have somebody to tell her that somebody had maligned you.

She only wanted to have somebody to tell her that you had been maligned.


She was ready to believe any one who would say a good word for you.

She was ready to believe anyone who would say a good word for you."


Perhaps I wasn't just the person to do it, but I believe even I was sufficient to serve the turn."


I do not want to tell you fibs at our last meeting.


But I told her what was quite as serviceable to you as though I had sung your virtues by the hour without ceasing.


I explained to her how very badly you had behaved to me.


I let her know that from the moment you had seen her, you had thrown me to the winds."


One does not scruple a lie for a friend, you know!


I could not go into all the little details of your perfidies.


I could not make her understand during one short and rather agonizing interview how you had allowed yourself to be talked out of your love for me by English propriety even before you had seen her beautiful eyes.


There was no reason why I should tell her all my disgrace,--anxious as I was to be of service.


Besides, as I put it, she was sure to be better pleased.


But I did tell her how unwillingly you had spared me an hour of your company;--what a trouble I had been to you;--how you would have shirked me if you could!"

But I did tell her what a trouble I had been to you; how you would have shirked me if you could!"


"That wretched journey to Lowestoft was the great crime.


Mr. Roger Carbury, who I own is poison to me--"

Mr. Roger Carbury, who is poison to me-"


"Knowing him or not I choose to have my own opinion, sir.


I say that he is poison to me, and I say that he had so stuffed her mind with the flagrant sin of that journey, with the peculiar wickedness of our having lived for two nights under the same roof, with the awful fact that we had travelled together in the same carriage, till that had become the one stumbling block on your path to happiness."


"He never said a word to her of our being there."


She knew it;--and, as the only means of whitewashing you in her eyes, I did tell her how cruel and how heartless you had been to me.

She knew it; and, as the only means of whitewashing you in her eyes, I told her how cruel and heartless you had been to me.


I did explain how the return of friendship which you had begun to show me, had been frozen, harder than Wenham ice, by the appearance of Mr. Carbury on the sands.


Perhaps I went a little farther and hinted that the meeting had been arranged as affording you the easiest means of escape from me."


"You see I had your welfare to look after; and the baser your conduct had been to me, the truer you were in her eyes.

The baser your conduct had been to me, the truer you were in her eyes.


Do I not deserve some thanks for what I did?


Surely you would not have had me tell her that your conduct to me had been that of a loyal, loving gentleman.


I confessed to her my utter despair;--I abased myself in the dust, as a woman is abased who has been treacherously ill-used, and has failed to avenge herself.


I knew that when she was sure that I was prostrate and hopeless she would be triumphant and contented.

I knew that she would be triumphant and contented.


I told her on your behalf how I had been ground to pieces under your chariot wheels.


And now you have not a word of thanks to give me!"


"You know where to go for salve for such skin-deep scratches as I make.


Where am I to find a surgeon who can put together my crushed bones?


Do you not suppose that in thinking of you I have often thought of daggers?


Why have I not thrust one into your heart, so that I might rescue you from the arms of this puny, spiritless English girl?"

Why have I not thrust one into your heart?"


All this time she was still seated, looking at him, leaning forward towards him with her hands upon her brow.


"But, Paul, I spit out my words to you, like any common woman, not because they will hurt you, but because I know I may take that comfort, such as it is, without hurting you.


You are uneasy for a moment while you are here, and I have a cruel pleasure in thinking that you cannot answer me.


But you will go from me to her, and then will you not be happy?


When you are sitting with your arm round her waist, and when she is playing with your smiles, will the memory of my words interfere with your joy then?


Ask yourself whether the prick will last longer than the moment.


But where am I to go for happiness and joy?"


Can you understand what it is to have to live only on retrospects?"


"I wish I could say a word to comfort you."


"You cannot say a word to comfort me, unless you will unsay all that you have said since I have been in England.


But, Paul, I will not be cruel to the end.


I will tell you all that I know of my concerns, even though my doing so should justify your treatment of me.

I will tell you all that I know of my concerns, even though it may justify your treatment of me.


And he himself says that the divorce which was declared between us was no divorce.

And he says that our divorce was no divorce.


Mr. Fisker came here to me with tidings.

Mr. Fisker came here to me with the news.


Though he is not a man whom I specially love,--though I know that he has been my enemy with you,--I shall return with him to San Francisco."

Though he is not a man whom I specially love, I shall return with him to San Francisco.


"I am told that he is taking Madame Melmotte with him, and Melmotte's daughter."

He is taking Madame Melmotte with him, and Melmotte's daughter."


They are adventurers,--as I am, and I do not see why we should not suit each other."


"They say also that Fisker will marry Miss Melmotte."

"They say that Fisker will marry Miss Melmotte."


I shall not be jealous of Mr. Fisker's attentions to the young lady.


But it will suit me to have some one to whom I can speak on friendly terms when I am back in California.

But it will suit me to have friends when I am back in California."


I may have a job of work to do there which will require the backing of some friends.


I shall be hand-and-glove with these people before I have travelled half across the ocean with them."


"I hope they will be kind to you," said Paul.


I have conquered others by being kind, but I have never had much kindness myself.


Did I not conquer you, sir, by being gentle and gracious to you?

Did I not conquer you, sir, by being gentle and gracious?


Ah, how kind I was to that poor wretch, till he lost himself in drink!

Ah, how kind I was to that poor Hurtle, till he lost himself in drink!


And then, Paul, I used to think of better people, perhaps of softer people, of things that should be clean and sweet and gentle,--of things that should smell of lavender instead of wild garlic.

And then, Paul, I used to think of better, softer people; and


I would dream of fair, feminine women,--of women who would be scared by seeing what I saw, who would die rather than do what I did.


And then I met you, Paul, and I said that my dreams should come true.

when I met you, I said that my dreams should come true.


I ought to have known that it could not be so.


I did not dare quite to tell you all the truth.

I did not dare to tell you all the truth.


I know I was wrong, and now the punishment has come upon me.


Well;--I suppose you had better say good-bye to me.

Well; I suppose you had better say good-bye to me."


Then she rose from her chair and stood before him with her arms hanging listlessly by her side.


Why should he,--if we are right in supposing that they who do good will be blessed for their good, and those who do evil cursed for their evil?


I cannot bring myself now not to wish that you would return to me.


If you would come I should care nothing for the misery of that girl,--nothing, at least nothing now, for the misery I should certainly bring upon you.

If you would come back to me I should care nothing for that girl's misery.


As she asked this she took from out her bosom a small miniature portrait of himself which he had given her in New York, and held it towards him.

She took out a small miniature portrait of himself which he had given her in New York.


"If you wish it I will,--of course," he said.


"I would not part with it for all the gold in California.


Nothing on earth shall ever part me from it.


Should I ever marry another man,--as I may do,--he must take me and this together.


As you know, I have but little respect for the proprieties of life.


I do not see why I am to abandon the picture of the man I love because he becomes the husband of another woman.


Having once said that I love you I shall not contradict myself because you have deserted me.

Having once said that I love you, I shall not contradict myself because you have deserted me.


Paul, I have loved you, and do love you,--oh, with my very heart of hearts."

Paul, I have loved you, and do love you - oh, with my very heart of hearts."


So speaking she threw herself into his arms and covered his face with kisses.


"For one moment you shall not banish me.


All this to him was simply agony,--though as she had truly said it was an agony he would soon forget.


But to be told by a woman of her love,--without being able even to promise love in return,--to be so told while you are in the very act of acknowledging your love for another woman,--carries with it but little of the joy of triumph.


He did not want to see her raging like a tigress, as he had once thought might be his fate; but he would have preferred the continuance of moderate resentment to this flood of tenderness.

He did not want to see her raging like a tigress, as he had thought she might; but he would have preferred a moderate resentment to this flood of tenderness.


Of course he stood with his arm round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses; but he did it with such stiff constraint that she at once felt how chill they were.

Of course he stood with his arm round her waist, and of course he returned her caresses; but he did it with such stiff constraint that she felt how chill they were.


"There," she said, smiling through her bitter tears,--"there; you are released now, and not even my fingers shall ever be laid upon you again.

"There," she said, smiling through her bitter tears; "you are released now.


If I have annoyed you, at this our last meeting, you must forgive me."

If I have annoyed you, you must forgive me."


"When two persons have made fools of themselves as we have, there must I suppose be some punishment.


Yours will never be heavy after I am gone.


I do not start till the first of next month because that is the day fixed by our friend, Mr. Fisker, and I shall remain here till then because my presence is convenient to Mrs. Pipkin; but I need not trouble you to come to me again.


Indeed it will be better that you should not.

It is better that you should not come to me again.


He took her by the hand, and stood for a moment looking at her, while she smiled and gently nodded her head at him.

He took her hand, and stood for a moment looking at her.


Then he essayed to pull her towards him as though he would again kiss her.

Then he tried to pull her towards him as though he would again kiss her.


But she repulsed him, still smiling the while.

But she repulsed him, smiling the while.


"No, sir; no; not again; never again, never,--never,--never again."


By that time she had recovered her hand and stood apart from him.

She recovered her hand and stood apart from him.


Then he turned round and left the room without uttering a word.


She stood still, without moving a limb, as she listened to his step down the stairs and to the opening and the closing of the door.

She stood still as she listened to his step down the stairs and the opening and closing of the door.


Then hiding herself at the window with the scanty drapery of the curtain she watched him as he went along the street.


When he had turned the corner she came back to the centre of the room, stood for a moment with her arms stretched out towards the walls, and then fell prone upon the floor.

She stood for a moment with her arms stretched out, and then fell prone upon the floor.


She had spoken the very truth when she said that she had loved him with all her heart.

She had spoken the truth when she said that she had loved him with all her heart.


[Illlustration: Mrs. Hurtle at the window.]


But that evening she bade Mrs. Pipkin drink tea with her and was more gracious to the poor woman than ever.

But that evening she bade Mrs. Pipkin drink tea with her, and was more gracious than ever.


When the obsequious but still curious landlady asked some question about Mr. Montague, Mrs. Hurtle seemed to speak very freely on the subject of her late lover,--and to speak without any great pain.

When the curious landlady asked about Mr. Montague, Mrs. Hurtle seemed to speak without any great pain.


They had put their heads together, she said, and had found that the marriage would not be suitable.


Each of them preferred their own country, and so they had agreed to part.


On that evening Mrs. Hurtle made herself more than usually pleasant, having the children up into her room, and giving them jam and bread-and-butter.


During the whole of the next fortnight she seemed to take a delight in doing all in her power for Mrs. Pipkin and her family.

During the next fortnight Mrs. Hurtle seemed to take delight in doing all in her power for Mrs. Pipkin and her family.


She gave toys to the children, and absolutely bestowed upon Mrs. Pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room.

She gave toys to the children, and bestowed upon Mrs. Pipkin a new carpet for the drawing-room.


Then Mr. Fisker came and took her away with him to America; and Mrs. Pipkin was left,--a desolate but grateful woman.

Then Mr. Fisker came and took her away with him to America; and Mrs. Pipkin was left desolate but grateful.


"They do tell bad things about them Americans," she said to a friend in the street, "and I don't pretend to know.

"They tell bad things about them Americans," she said to a friend.


But for a lodger, I only wish Providence would send me another just like the one I have lost.

"But I only wish Providence would send me another lodger like the one I have lost.


She had that good nature about her she liked to see the bairns eating pudding just as if they was her own."


I think Mrs. Pipkin was right, and that Mrs. Hurtle, with all her faults, was a good-natured woman.


On the day after the visit just recorded, Paul Montague received the following letter from Mrs. Hurtle:--

On the next day, Paul Montague received this letter from Mrs. Hurtle:


I think that perhaps we hardly made ourselves understood to each other yesterday, and I am sure that you do not understand how absolutely my whole life is now at stake.

I think that perhaps we hardly understood each other yesterday, and I am sure that you do not understand how absolutely my whole life is now at stake.


I need only refer you to our journey from San Francisco to London to make you conscious that I really love you.


She cannot throw it from her as a man may do amidst the affairs of the world.

She cannot throw it from her as a man may.


Nor, if it has to be thrown from her, can she bear the loss as a man bears it.

Nor can she bear the loss as a man bears it.


Her thoughts have dwelt on it with more constancy than his;--and then too her devotion has separated her from other things.

Her thoughts have dwelt on it with more constancy than his; and her devotion has separated her from other things.


My devotion to you has separated me from everything.


But I scorn to come to you as a suppliant.


If you choose to say after hearing me that you will put me away from you because you have seen some one fairer than I am, whatever course I may take in my indignation, I shall not throw myself at your feet to tell you of my wrongs.

If you say that you will discard me because you have seen some one fairer, I shall not throw myself at your feet.


I wish, however, that you should hear me.


You say that there is some one you love better than you love me, but that you have not committed yourself to her.

You say that there is someone you love better than me, but that you have not committed yourself to her.


Alas, I know too much of the world to be surprised that a man's constancy should not stand out two years in the absence of his mistress.


A man cannot wrap himself up and keep himself warm with an absent love as a woman does.


But I think that some remembrance of the past must come back upon you now that you have seen me again.

But I think that you must remember the past now that you have seen me again.


I think that you must have owned to yourself that you did love me, and that you could love me again.

I think that you must know that you did love me, and that you could love me again.


You sin against me to my utter destruction if you leave me.


I have given up every friend I have to follow you.


As regards the other--nameless lady, there can be no fault; for, as you tell me, she knows nothing of your passion.

As regards the other lady, there can be no fault; for she knows nothing of your passion.


You hinted that there were other reasons,--that we know too little of each other.

You hinted that there were other reasons - that we know too little of each other.


You meant no doubt that you knew too little of me.

You meant that you knew too little of me.


Is it not the case that you were content when you knew only what was to be learned in those days of our sweet intimacy, but that you have been made discontented by stories told you by your partners at San Francisco?

Yet have you not merely been made discontented by stories told you at San Francisco?


If this be so, trouble yourself at any rate to find out the truth before you allow yourself to treat a woman as you propose to treat me.

Find out the truth before you treat me the way you propose to.


I think you are too good a man to cast aside a woman you have loved,--like a soiled glove,--because ill-natured words have been spoken of her by men, or perhaps by women, who know nothing of her life.

I think you are too good a man to cast aside a woman like a soiled glove, because ill-natured words have been spoken of her by people who know nothing of her life.


My late husband, Caradoc Hurtle, was Attorney-General in the State of Kansas when I married him, I being then in possession of a considerable fortune left to me by my mother.

My late husband, Caradoc Hurtle, was Attorney-General in Kansas when I married him, bringing to him a fortune left to me by my mother.


He spent what money he could get of mine, and then left me and the State, and took himself to Texas;--where he drank himself to death.

He spent my money, and then left me and took himself to Texas - where he drank himself to death.


I did not follow him, and in his absence I was divorced from him in accordance with the laws of Kansas State.


I then went to San Francisco about property of my mother's, which my husband had fraudulently sold to a countryman of ours now resident in Paris,--having forged my name.

I then went to San Francisco about property of my mother's, which my husband had fraudulently sold, having forged my name.


There I met you, and in that short story I tell you all that there is to be told.

There I met you, and that is all that there is to be told.


It may be that you do not believe me now; but if so, are you not bound to go where you can verify your own doubts or my word?

Maybe you do not believe me; but if so, are you not bound to go where you can verify your doubts?


I try to write dispassionately, but I am in truth overborne by passion.

I try to write dispassionately, but I am in truth overcome by passion.


I also have heard in California rumours about myself, and after much delay I received your letter.

I also have heard in California rumours about myself.


I resolved to follow you to England as soon as circumstances would permit me.

When I received your letter, I resolved to follow you to England as soon as I could.


I have been forced to fight a battle about my property, and I have won it.

I have been forced to fight a battle for my property, and I have won it


I had two reasons for carrying this through by my personal efforts before I saw you.


I had begun it and had determined that I would not be beaten by fraud.


And I was also determined that I would not plead to you as a pauper.

; for I was determined that I would not plead to you as a pauper.


We have talked too freely together in past days of our mutual money matters for me to feel any delicacy in alluding to them.


When a man and woman have agreed to be husband and wife there should be no delicacy of that kind.

When a man and woman have agreed to be husband and wife there should be no delicacy in talking about money.


When we came here together we were both embarrassed.


We both had some property, but neither of us could enjoy it.


Since that I have made my way through my difficulties.


From what I have heard at San Francisco I suppose that you have done the same.

, and from what I have heard at San Francisco, I suppose you have done the same.


I at any rate shall be perfectly contented if from this time our affairs can be made one.


Since I last saw you in New York I have not had altogether a good time.

Since I last saw you in New York I have not had a good time.


I have had a great struggle and have been thrown on my own resources and have been all alone.

I have had a great struggle and have been thrown on my own resources.


You heard cruel things said, but I presume them to have been said to you with reference to my late husband.


Since that they have been said to others with reference to you.


I have not now come, as my countrymen do generally, backed with a trunk full of introductions and with scores of friends ready to receive me.

I have no friends here ready to receive me.


It was necessary to me that I should see you and hear my fate,--and here I am.

I needed to see you and hear my fate - and


I appeal to you to release me in some degree from the misery of my solitude.

I appeal to you to release me from the misery of my solitude.


You know,--no one so well,--that my nature is social and that I am not given to be melancholy.

You know that I am not usually melancholy.


Let us be cheerful together, as we once were, if it be only for a day.

Let us be cheerful together, as we once were, if only for a day.


Let me see you as I used to see you, and let me be seen as I used to be seen.


Come to me and take me out with you, and let us dine together, and take me to one of your theatres.

Come and take me out, and let us dine together, and go to one of your theatres.


If you wish it I will promise you not to allude to that revelation you made to me just now, though of course it is nearer to my heart than any other matter.

If you wish I will promise not to allude to that revelation you made to me.


Perhaps some woman's vanity makes me think that if you would only see me again, and talk to me as you used to talk, you would think of me as you used to think.

Perhaps a woman's vanity makes me think that if you would only see me again, and talk to me as you used to talk, you would think of me as you used to think.


You need not fear but you will find me at home.


I have no whither to go,--and shall hardly stir from the house till you come to me.


Send me a line, however, that I may have my hat on if you are minded to do as I ask you.


This letter took her much time to write, though she was very careful so to write as to make it seem that it had flown easily from her pen.

This letter took her much time to write, though she was very careful to make it seem that it had flown easily from her pen.


She copied it from the first draught, but she copied it rapidly, with one or two premeditated erasures, so that it should look to have been done hurriedly.

She copied it rapidly from the first draft, with one or two premeditated erasures, so that it should look to have been done hurriedly.


She had at any rate suppressed any show of anger.


In calling him to her she had so written as to make him feel that if he would come he need not fear the claws of an offended lioness:--and yet she was angry as a lioness who had lost her cub.

- and yet she was as angry as a lioness who had lost her cub.


She had almost ignored that other lady whose name she had not yet heard.


She had spoken of her lover's entanglement with that other lady as a light thing which might easily be put aside.


She had said much of her own wrongs, but had not said much of the wickedness of the wrong doer.


Invited as she had invited him, surely he could not but come to her!

Invited as she had invited him, surely he must come to her!


And then, in her reference to money, not descending to the details of dollars and cents, she had studied how to make him feel that he might marry her without imprudence.


As she read it over to herself she thought that there was a tone through it of natural feminine uncautious eagerness.

As she read it over she thought that it had a tone of natural feminine eagerness.


She put her letter up in an envelope, stuck a stamp on it and addressed it,--and then threw herself back in her chair to think of her position.

She put her letter in an envelope, addressed it, and then threw herself back in her chair to think.


He should marry her,--or there should be something done which should make the name of Winifrid Hurtle known to the world!

He should marry her - or the name of Winifrid Hurtle would become known to the world!


She would not talk of revenge,--she told herself that she would not even think of revenge,--till she was quite sure that revenge would be necessary.

- she told herself she would not even think of revenge, till she was quite sure that revenge would be necessary.


But she did think of it, and could not keep her thoughts from it for a moment.


Could it be possible that she, with all her intellectual gifts as well as those of her outward person, should be thrown over by a man whom well as she loved him,--and she did love him with all her heart,--she regarded as greatly inferior to herself!

Could it be possible that she, with all her cleverness and good looks, should be thrown over by a man who - well as she loved him - she regarded as greatly inferior to herself?


He had promised to marry her; and he should marry her, or the world should hear the story of his perjury!


Paul Montague felt that he was surrounded by difficulties as soon as he read the letter.


That his heart was all the other way he was quite sure; but yet it did seem to him that there was no escape from his troubles open to him.

It did not seem that there was any escape open to him.


There was not a single word in this woman's letter that he could contradict.

There was not a single word in the letter that he could contradict.


He had loved her and had promised to make her his wife,--and had determined to break his word to her because he found that she was enveloped in dangerous mystery.

He had loved her and had promised to marry her - and had determined to break his word because


He had so resolved before he had ever seen Hetta Carbury, having been made to believe by Roger Carbury that a marriage with an unknown American woman,--of whom he only did know that she was handsome and clever,--would be a step to ruin.


The woman, as Roger said, was an adventuress,--might never have had a husband,--might at this moment have two or three,--might be overwhelmed with debt,--might be anything bad, dangerous, and abominable.

, as Roger said, she was an adventuress, about whom he knew almost nothing.


All that he had heard at San Francisco had substantiated Roger's views.


"Any scrape is better than that scrape," Roger had said to him.


Paul had believed his Mentor, and had believed with a double faith as soon as he had seen Hetta Carbury.

, and Paul had believed him; and had believed doubly once he had met Hetta Carbury.


It was impossible, after what had passed between them, that he should leave Mrs. Hurtle at her lodgings at Islington without any notice.

It was impossible, after what had passed between them, that he should leave Mrs. Hurtle immediately.


It was clear enough to him that she would not consent to be so left.

It was clear that she would not consent to be so left.


Then her present proposal,--though it seemed to be absurd and almost comical in the tragical condition of their present circumstances,--had in it some immediate comfort.


To take her out and give her a dinner, and then go with her to some theatre, would be easy and perhaps pleasant.

To take her out to dinner and the theatre would be easy and perhaps pleasant.


It would be easier, and certainly much pleasanter, because she had pledged herself to abstain from talking of her grievances.


Then he remembered some happy evenings, delicious hours, which he had so passed with her, when they were first together at New York.

He remembered some delightful evenings which he had so passed with her, when they were first together at New York.


There could be no better companion for such a festival.


She could talk,--and she could listen as well as talk.


And she could sit silent, conveying to her neighbour the sense of her feminine charms by her simple proximity.


he had been very happy to sit next to her.


Had it been possible he would have escaped the danger now, but the reminiscence of past delights in some sort reconciled him to the performance of this perilous duty.

The reminiscence partly reconciled him to doing this perilous duty.


But when the evening should be over, how would he part with her?

But when the evening was over, how would he part with her?


When the pleasant hour should have passed away and he had brought her back to her door, what should he say to her then?


He must make some arrangement as to a future meeting.


He knew that he was in a great peril, and he did not know how he might best escape it.

He knew that he was in great peril, and he did not know how to escape it.


He could not now go to Roger Carbury for advice; for was not Roger Carbury his rival?

He could not ask Roger Carbury for advice; for was not Roger his rival?


It would be for his friend's interest that he should marry the widow.


Roger Carbury, as he knew well, was too honest a man to allow himself to be guided in any advice he might give by such a feeling, but, still, on this matter, he could no longer tell everything to Roger Carbury.


He could not say all that he would have to say without speaking of Hetta;--and of his love for Hetta he could not speak to his rival.


He had no other friend in whom he could confide.


There was no other human being he could trust, unless it was Hetta herself.


He thought for a moment that he would write a stern and true letter to the woman, telling her that as it was impossible that there should ever be marriage between them, he felt himself bound to abstain from her society.

He thought for a moment of writing a stern and true letter to Mrs. Hurtle, telling her that he felt himself bound to stay away.


But then he remembered her solitude, her picture of herself in London without even an acquaintance except himself, and he convinced himself that it would be impossible that he should leave her without seeing her.

But then he remembered her solitude in London, and he convinced himself that he ought to see her.


I will come for you to-morrow at half-past five.

I will come for you tomorrow at half-past five.


We will dine together at the Thespian;--and then I will have a box at the Haymarket.

We will dine together at the Thespian; and then I will have a box at the Haymarket Theatre.


The Thespian is a good sort of place, and lots of ladies dine there.


Some half-formed idea ran through his brain that P. M. was a safer signature than Paul Montague.


Then came a long train of thoughts as to the perils of the whole proceeding.


She had told him that she had announced herself to the keeper of the lodging-house as engaged to him, and he had in a manner authorised the statement by declining to contradict it at once.

She had told her landlady that she was engaged to him, and he had not contradicted it.


And now, after that announcement, he was assenting to her proposal that they should go out and amuse themselves together.

And now he was agreeing to go out with her.


Hitherto she had always seemed to him to be open, candid, and free from intrigue.


He had known her to be impulsive, capricious, at times violent, but never deceitful.


Perhaps he was unable to read correctly the inner character of a woman whose experience of the world had been much wider than his own.


His mind misgave him that it might be so; but still he thought that he knew that she was not treacherous.


And yet did not her present acts justify him in thinking that she was carrying on a plot against him?


The note, however, was sent, and he prepared for the evening of the play, leaving the dangers of the occasion to adjust themselves.


He ordered the dinner and he took the box, and at the hour fixed he was again at her lodgings.

ordered the dinner and the box. At the hour fixed he was again at her lodgings.


The woman of the house with a smile showed him into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room, and he at once perceived that the smile was intended to welcome him as an accepted lover.

The woman who owned the lodging-house showed him into Mrs. Hurtle's sitting-room, welcoming him with a


It was a smile half of congratulation to the lover, half of congratulation to herself as a woman that another man had been caught by the leg and made fast.


What man, who has been caught and made sure, has not felt a certain dissatisfaction at being so treated, understanding that the smile is intended to convey to him a sense of his own captivity?


It has, however, generally mattered but little to us.


If we have felt that something of ridicule was intended, because we have been regarded as cocks with their spurs cut away, then we also have a pride when we have declared to ourselves that upon the whole we have gained more than we have lost.


But with Paul Montague at the present moment there was no satisfaction, no pride,--only a feeling of danger which every hour became deeper, and stronger, with less chance of escape.

Paul Montague felt no satisfaction at this - only a sense of danger which every hour became stronger.


He was almost tempted at this moment to detain the woman, and tell her the truth,--and bear the immediate consequences.

He was almost tempted to tell the woman the truth


But there would be treason in doing so, and he would not, could not do it.


He was left hardly a moment to think of this.


Almost before the woman had shut the door, Mrs. Hurtle came to him out of her bedroom, with her hat on her head.

Mrs. Hurtle came out of her bedroom, with her hat on.


Nothing could be more simple than her dress, and nothing prettier.


It was now June, and the weather was warm, and the lady wore a light gauzy black dress,--there is a fabric which the milliners I think call grenadine,--coming close up round her throat.

It was now June, and the weather was warm, and she wore a light, gauzy black dress coming close up round her throat.


It was very pretty, and she was prettier even than her dress.

It was very pretty, and she was even prettier.


And she had on a hat, black also, small and simple, but very pretty.

Her hat was black also, small and simple.


There are times at which a man going to a theatre with a lady wishes her to be bright in her apparel,--almost gorgeous; in which he will hardly be contented unless her cloak be scarlet, and her dress white, and her gloves of some bright hue,--unless she wear roses or jewels in her hair.


It is thus our girls go to the theatre now, when they go intending that all the world shall know who they are.


But there are times again in which a man would prefer that his companion should be very quiet in her dress,--but still pretty; in which he would choose that she should dress herself for him only.

There are times at which a man going to a theatre with a lady wishes her to look bright and gorgeous; but there are also times when he would prefer that his companion should be very quiet in her dress, but still pretty; in other words, that she should dress for him only.


All this Mrs. Hurtle had understood accurately; and Paul Montague, who understood nothing of it, was gratified.

All this Mrs. Hurtle had understood; and Paul, who understood nothing of it, was gratified.


"You told me to have a hat, and here I am,--hat and all."

"You told me to have a hat, and here I am - hat and all."


She gave him her hand, and laughed, and looked pleasantly at him, as though there was no cause of unhappiness between them.

She gave him her hand, and laughed pleasantly


The lodging-house woman saw them enter the cab, and muttered some little word as they went off.


Paul did not hear the word, but was sure that it bore some indistinct reference to his expected marriage.


Neither during the drive, nor at the dinner, nor during the performance at the theatre, did she say a word in allusion to her engagement.

Neither during the drive, nor at the dinner, nor at the theatre, did she say a word about the engagement.


It was with them, as in former days it had been at New York.


She whispered pleasant words to him, touching his arm now and again with her finger as she spoke, seeming ever better inclined to listen than to speak.

She whispered pleasant words, touching his arm now and again, seeming more inclined to listen than to speak.


Now and again she referred, after some slightest fashion, to little circumstances that had occurred between them, to some joke, some hour of tedium, some moment of delight; but it was done as one man might do it to another,--if any man could have done it so pleasantly.

Now and again she referred, in the lightest fashion, to little things that had happened between them, to some joke, some hour of tedium, some moment of delight.


There was a scent which he had once approved, and now she bore it on her handkerchief.


There was a ring which he had once given her, and she wore it on the finger with which she touched his sleeve.


With his own hands he had once adjusted her curls, and each curl was as he had placed it.


She had a way of shaking her head, that was very pretty,--a way that might, one would think, have been dangerous at her age, as likely to betray those first grey hairs which will come to disturb the last days of youth.

She had a way of shaking her head that was very pretty, which


He had once told her in sport to be more careful.


She now shook her head again, and, as he smiled, she told him that she could still dare to be careless.


There are a thousand little silly softnesses which are pretty and endearing between acknowledged lovers, with which no woman would like to dispense, to which even men who are in love submit sometimes with delight; but which in other circumstances would be vulgar,--and to the woman distasteful.

There are a thousand little silly softnesses which are endearing between acknowledged lovers; and


There are closenesses and sweet approaches, smiles and nods and pleasant winkings, whispers, innuendoes and hints, little mutual admirations and assurances that there are things known to those two happy ones of which the world beyond is altogether ignorant.


Much of this comes of nature, but something of it sometimes comes by art.


Of such art as there may be in it Mrs. Hurtle was a perfect master.

Mrs. Hurtle was a perfect master of the art of these.


No allusion was made to their engagement,--not an unpleasant word was spoken; but the art was practised with all its pleasant adjuncts.


Paul was flattered to the top of his bent; and, though the sword was hanging over his head, though he knew that the sword must fall,--must partly fall that very night,--still he enjoyed it.

Paul was flattered; and though the sword was hanging over his head, still he enjoyed it.


There are men who, of their natures, do not like women, even though they may have wives and legions of daughters, and be surrounded by things feminine in all the affairs of their lives.

There are men who do not like women, even though they may have wives and legions of daughters.


Others again have their strongest affinities and sympathies with women, and are rarely altogether happy when removed from their influence.

But others have their strongest affinities and sympathies with women, and


At this time he was thoroughly in love with Hetta Carbury, and was not in love with Mrs. Hurtle.


He would have given much of his golden prospects in the American railway to have had Mrs. Hurtle reconveyed suddenly to San Francisco.


And yet he had a delight in her presence.


"The acting isn't very good," he said when the piece was nearly over.

"The acting isn't very good," he said towards the end of the play.


What we enjoy or what we suffer depends upon the humour.


The acting is not first-rate, but I have listened and laughed and cried, because I have been happy."


He was bound to tell her that he also had enjoyed the evening, and was bound to say it in no voice of hypocritical constraint.


"And one has so little that is really jolly, as you call it.


I wonder whether any girl ever did sit and cry like that because her lover talked to another woman.


What I find fault with is that the writers and actors are so ignorant of men and women as we see them every day.

What I find fault with is that the writers and actors are so ignorant of people as we see them every day.


It's all right that she should cry, but she shouldn't cry there."


The position described was so nearly her own, that he could say nothing to this.


She had so spoken on purpose,--fighting her own battle after her own fashion, knowing well that her words would confuse him.

She spoke knowing that her words would confuse him.


She may be found crying because she is unable to hide them;--but she does not willingly let the other woman see them.

She may be found crying because she is unable to hide them; but she does not let the other woman see them.


"Medea did not weep when she was introduced to Creusa."


"There's a dash of the savage princess about most of them.


And I have had no nosegay brought in a wheelbarrow to throw on to the stage.


I'm not a bit afraid of a London cab by myself."

I'm not afraid of a London cab by myself."


But of course he accompanied her to Islington.


He owed her at any rate as much as that.


She continued to talk during the whole journey.


What a wonderful place London was,--so immense, but so dirty!

of what a wonderful place London was - so immense, but so dirty!


New York of course was not so big, but was, she thought, pleasanter.


But Paris was the gem of gems among towns.


She did not like Frenchmen, and she liked Englishmen even better than Americans; but she fancied that she could never like English women.

She did not like Frenchmen, and she liked Englishmen; but she fancied that she could never like English women.


I like good conduct, and law, and religion too if it be not forced down one's throat; but I hate what your women call propriety.

"I like good conduct, but I hate what your women call propriety.


I suppose what we have been doing to-night is very improper; but I am quite sure that it has not been in the least wicked."

I suppose what we have been doing tonight is very improper; but I am quite sure that it has not been in the least wicked."


"I don't think it has," said Paul Montague very tamely.


It is a long way from the Haymarket to Islington, but at last the cab reached the lodging-house door.

At last the cab reached the lodging-house door.


"Even about the houses there is an air of stiff-necked propriety which frightens me."


She was getting out as she spoke, and he had already knocked at the door.


"Come in for one moment," she said as he paid the cabman.


The woman the while was standing with the door in her hand.

The lodging-house woman was standing with the door in her hand.


It was near midnight,--but, when people are engaged, hours do not matter.

It was near midnight, but, when people are engaged, hours do not matter.


The woman of the house, who was respectability herself,--a nice kind widow, with five children, named Pipkin,--understood that and smiled again as he followed the lady into the sitting-room.

The woman of the house - who was a nice, respectable widow, with five children, named Mrs. Pipkin - smiled again as he followed Mrs. Hurtle into her sitting-room.


She had already taken off her hat and was flinging it on to the sofa as he entered.


"Shut the door for one moment," she said; and he shut it.


Then she threw herself into his arms, not kissing him but looking up into his face.


I will not bear to be separated from you.


There is nothing I cannot do for love of you,--but to lose you."

there is nothing I cannot do for love of you - but to lose you."


Then she pushed him from her and looked away from him, clasping her hands together.

Then she pushed him from her and clasped her hands together.


"But Paul, I mean to keep my pledge to you to-night.

"But Paul, I mean to keep my pledge to you tonight.


It was to be an island in our troubles, a little holiday in our hard school-time, and I will not destroy it at its close.

It was to be an island in our troubles, a little holiday in our hard school-time, and I will not destroy it.


You will see me again soon,--will you not?"

You will see me again soon - will you not?"


He nodded assent, then took her in his arms and kissed her, and left her without a word.


On Friday, the 21st June, the Board of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway sat in its own room behind the Exchange, as was the Board's custom every Friday.

On Friday 21st June, the Board of the Railway sat, as it did every Friday.


On this occasion all the members were there, as it had been understood that the chairman was to make a special statement.

All the members were there, as it had been understood that the chairman was to make a special statement.


There was the great chairman as a matter of course.


In the midst of his numerous and immense concerns he never threw over the railway, or delegated to other less experienced hands those cares which the commercial world had intrusted to his own.


Lord Alfred was there, with Mr. Cohenlupe, the Hebrew gentleman, and Paul Montague, and Lord Nidderdale,--and even Sir Felix Carbury.


Sir Felix had come, being very anxious to buy and sell, and not as yet having had an opportunity of realising his golden hopes, although he had actually paid a thousand pounds in hard money into Mr. Melmotte's hands.

Even Sir Felix had come, being very anxious to buy and sell, and not as yet having had an opportunity of realising his golden hopes, although he had paid Mr. Melmotte a thousand pounds.


The secretary, Mr. Miles Grendall, was also present as a matter of course.


The Board always met at three, and had generally been dissolved at a quarter past three.

The Board always met at three, and had generally been dissolved at a quarter past.


Lord Alfred and Mr. Cohenlupe sat at the chairman's right and left hand.

Lord Alfred and Mr. Cohenlupe sat next to Mr. Melmotte.