Sir Felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it,--as far as such willingness could go with him. The prize was so great, and the comfort of wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert himself. It was this feeling which had brought him into Suffolk, and induced him to travel all night, across dirty roads, in an old cab. For the girl herself he cared not the least. It was not in his power really to care for anybody. He did not dislike her much. He was not given to disliking people strongly, except at the moments in which they offended him. He regarded her simply as the means by which a portion of Mr. Melmotte's wealth might be conveyed to his uses. In regard to feminine beauty he had his own ideas, and his own inclinations. He was by no means indifferent to such attraction. But Marie Melmotte, from that point of view, was nothing to him. Such prettiness as belonged to her came from the brightness of her youth, and from a modest shy demeanour joined to an incipient aspiration for the enjoyment of something in the world which should be her own. There was, too, arising within her bosom a struggle to be something in the world, an idea that she, too, could say something, and have thoughts of her own, if only she had some friend near her whom she need not fear. Though still shy, she was always resolving that she would abandon her shyness, and already had thoughts of her own as to the perfectly open confidence which should exist between two lovers. When alone,--and she was much alone,--she would build castles in the air, which were bright with art and love, rather than with gems and gold. The books she read, poor though they generally were, left something bright on her imagination. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hitherto hardly talked to any one since she was a child. Sir Felix Carbury, she knew, had made her an offer. She knew also, or thought that she knew, that she loved the man. And now she was with him alone! Now surely had come the time in which some one of her castles in the air might be found to be built of real materials.

Sir Felix had his work to do, and was willing to do it. The prize was so great, and the comfort of wealth was so sure, that even he was tempted to exert himself. It was this feeling which had induced him to travel across dirty roads in an old cab. For the girl herself he cared not the least. It was not in his power really to care for anybody. He did not dislike her much. He regarded her simply as the means by which Mr. Melmotte's wealth might be conveyed to his uses.
Miss Melmotte was not his idea of a beauty. Such prettiness as she had came from the brightness of her youth, and from a modest, shy demeanour joined to a hope for the enjoyment of something in the world which should be her own. There was arising within her bosom an idea that she, too, could say something, and have thoughts of her own, if only she had some friend near her whom she need not fear. Though still shy, she was always resolving to abandon her shyness, and thought a perfectly open confidence should exist between two lovers. When alone - and she was much alone - she would build castles in the air, which were bright with art and love, rather than with gems and gold. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hardly talked to anyone. Sir Felix Carbury had made her an offer; and she loved him. And now she was with him alone! Now surely had come the time in which one of her castles in the air might be found to be built of real materials.
