She said, 'Robert Moore is neither affected nor sentimental; you mistake his character utterly, or rather not one of you here knows anything about it.' Now, shall I tell you what she is like? I can tell what people are like, and how they are dressed, better than Rose can."
"Let us hear."
"She is nice; she is fair; she has a pretty white slender throat; she has long curls, not stiff ones--they hang loose and soft, their colour is brown but not dark; she speaks quietly, with a clear tone; she never makes a bustle in moving; she often wears a gray silk dress; she is neat all over--her gowns, and her shoes, and her gloves always fit her. She is what I call a lady, and when I am as tall as she is, I mean to be like her. Shall I suit you if I am? Will you really marry me?"
Moore stroked Jessy's hair. For a minute he seemed as if he would draw her nearer to him, but instead he put her a little farther off.

She said, 'Robert Moore is neither affected nor sentimental; you mistake his character utterly.' Miss Helstone is nice; she has a pretty white slender throat; she has long soft curls; she speaks quietly, and she never makes a bustle in moving; she often wears a grey silk dress; she is neat all over. She is what I call a lady, and when I am as tall as she is, I mean to be like her. Shall I suit you if I am? Will you really marry me?"
Moore stroked Jessy's hair, but then put her a little farther off.


"Oh! you won't have me? You push me away."
"Why, Jessy, you care nothing about me. You never come to see me now at the Hollow."
"Because you don't ask me."
Hereupon Mr. Moore gave both the little girls an invitation to pay him a visit next day, promising that, as he was going to Stilbro' in the morning, he would buy them each a present, of what nature he would not then declare, but they must come and see. Jessy was about to reply, when one of the boys unexpectedly broke in,--

"Oh! you won't have me? You push me away."
"Why, Jessy, you care nothing about me. You never come to see me now at the Hollow."
"Because you don't ask me."
Hereupon Mr. Moore gave both the little girls an invitation to visit next day, promising that, as he was going to Stilbro' in the morning, he would buy them each a present. Jessy was about to reply, when one of the boys broke in:


"I know that Miss Helstone you have all been palavering about. She's an ugly girl. I hate her. I hate all womenites. I wonder what they were made for."

"I know that Miss Helstone you have been palavering about. She's an ugly girl. I hate her. I hate all womenites. I wonder what they were made for."


"Martin!" said his father, for Martin it was. The lad only answered by turning his cynical young face, half-arch, half-truculent, towards the paternal chair. "Martin, my lad, thou'rt a swaggering whelp now; thou wilt some day be an outrageous puppy. But stick to those sentiments of thine. See, I'll write down the words now i' my pocket-book." (The senior took out a morocco-covered book, and deliberately wrote therein.) "Ten years hence, Martin, if thou and I be both alive at that day, I'll remind thee of that speech."

"Martin!" said his father. "Martin, my lad, thou'rt a swaggering whelp now; thou wilt some day be an outrageous puppy. But stick to those sentiments of thine. See, I'll write down the words now i' my pocket-book. Ten years hence, Martin, I'll remind thee of that speech."


"I'll say the same then. I mean always to hate women. They're such dolls; they do nothing but dress themselves finely, and go swimming about to be admired. I'll never marry. I'll be a bachelor."
"Stick to it! stick to it!--Hesther" (addressing his wife), "I was like him when I was his age--a regular misogamist; and, behold! by the time I was three-and-twenty--being then a tourist in France and Italy, and the Lord knows where--I curled my hair every night before I went to bed, and wore a ring i' my ear, and would have worn one i' my nose if it had been the fashion, and all that I might make myself pleasing and charming to the ladies. Martin will do the like."

"I'll say the same then. I mean always to hate women. They're such dolls; they do nothing but dress themselves finely, and go swimming about to be admired. I'll never marry."
"Stick to it! - Hesther" (addressing his wife), "I was like him when I was his age; and, behold! by the time I was three-and-twenty I curled my hair every night, and wore a ring i' my ear, and would have worn one i' my nose if it might charm the ladies. Martin will do the like."


"Will I? Never! I've more sense. What a guy you were, father! As to dressing, I make this vow: I'll never dress more finely than as you see me at present.--Mr. Moore, I'm clad in blue cloth from top to toe, and they laugh at me, and call me sailor at the grammar-school. I laugh louder at them, and say they are all magpies and parrots, with their coats one colour, and their waistcoats another, and their trousers a third. I'll always wear blue cloth, and nothing but blue cloth. It is beneath a human being's dignity to dress himself in parti-coloured garments."
"Ten years hence, Martin, no tailor's shop will have choice of colours varied enough for thy exacting taste; no perfumer's stores essences exquisite enough for thy fastidious senses."


Martin looked disdain, but vouchsafed no further reply. Meantime Mark, who for some minutes had been rummaging amongst a pile of books on a side-table, took the word. He spoke in a peculiarly slow, quiet voice, and with an expression of still irony in his face not easy to describe.
"Mr. Moore," said he, "you think perhaps it was a compliment on Miss Caroline Helstone's part to say you were not sentimental. I thought you appeared confused when my sisters told you the words, as if you felt flattered. You turned red, just like a certain vain little lad at our school, who always thinks proper to blush when he gets a rise in the class. For your benefit, Mr. Moore, I've been looking up the word 'sentimental' in the dictionary, and I find it to mean 'tinctured with sentiment.' On examining further, 'sentiment' is explained to be thought, idea, notion. A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts, ideas, notions; an unsentimental man is one destitute of thought, idea, or notion."

Martin looked disdainful, but made no reply. Meantime Mark, who had been rummaging amongst some books on a side-table, spoke in a slow, quiet voice, and with an ironic expression.
"Mr. Moore," said he, "you think perhaps it was a compliment on Miss Caroline Helstone's part to say you were not sentimental. You turned red, as if you felt flattered. I've been looking up 'sentimental' in the dictionary, and I find it to mean 'tinctured with sentiment.' And 'sentiment' means thought, idea, notion. A sentimental man, then, is one who has thoughts and ideas; an unsentimental man is one without thoughts or ideas."


And Mark stopped. He did not smile, he did not look round for admiration. He had said his say, and was silent.
"Ma foi! mon ami," observed Mr. Moore to Yorke, "ce sont vraiment des enfants terribles, que les vtres!"
Rose, who had been listening attentively to Mark's speech, replied to him, "There are different kinds of thoughts, ideas, and notions," said she, "good and bad. Sentimental must refer to the bad, or Miss Helstone must have taken it in that sense, for she was not blaming Mr. Moore; she was defending him."
"That's my kind little advocate!" said Moore, taking Rose's hand.
"She was defending him," repeated Rose, "as I should have done had I been in her place, for the other ladies seemed to speak spitefully."

Rose replied. "There are different kinds of thoughts and ideas, good and bad. Miss Helstone must have taken sentimental to mean having bad thoughts, for she was not blaming Mr. Moore; she was defending him, just as I should have done in her place, for the other ladies seemed to speak spitefully."


"Ladies always do speak spitefully," observed Martin. "It is the nature of womenites to be spiteful."
Matthew now, for the first time, opened his lips. "What a fool Martin is, to be always gabbling about what he does not understand!"
"It is my privilege, as a freeman, to gabble on whatever subject I like," responded Martin.
"You use it, or rather abuse it, to such an extent," rejoined the elder brother, "that you prove you ought to have been a slave."
"A slave! a slave! That to a Yorke, and from a Yorke! This fellow," he added, standing up at the table, and pointing across it to Matthew--"this fellow forgets, what every cottier in Briarfield knows, that all born of our house have that arched instep under which water can flow--proof that there has not been a slave of the blood for three hundred years."

"Ladies always speak spitefully," observed Martin. "It is the nature of womenites to be spiteful."
Matthew now spoke for the first time. "What a fool Martin is, always gabbling about what he does not understand!"
"It is my privilege, as a freeman, to gabble on whatever subject I like," responded Martin.
"You ought to have been a slave," rejoined the elder brother.
"A slave!"


"Mountebank!" said Matthew.
"Lads, be silent!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke.--"Martin, you are a mischief-maker. There would have been no disturbance but for you."
"Indeed! Is that correct? Did I begin, or did Matthew? Had I spoken to him when he accused me of gabbling like a fool?"

"Mountebank!" said Matthew.
"Lads, be silent!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke. "Martin, you are a mischief-maker."
"Did I begin, or Matthew? He accused me of gabbling like a fool!"


"A presumptuous fool!" repeated Matthew.
Here Mrs. Yorke commenced rocking herself--rather a portentous movement with her, as it was occasionally followed, especially when Matthew was worsted in a conflict, by a fit of hysterics.
"I don't see why I should bear insolence from Matthew Yorke, or what right he has to use bad language to me," observed Martin.
"He has no right, my lad; but forgive your brother until seventy-and-seven times," said Mr. Yorke soothingly.
"Always alike, and theory and practice always adverse!" murmured Martin as he turned to leave the room.
"Where art thou going, my son?" asked the father.
"Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult, if in this house I can find any such place."

"A presumptuous fool!" repeated Matthew.
Here Mrs. Yorke began rocking herself - rather a portentous movement with her, as it was occasionally followed by a fit of hysterics, especially when Matthew was worsted in a conflict.
"I don't see what right Matthew has to use bad language to me," said Martin.
"He has no right, my lad; but forgive your brother until seventy-and-seven times," said Mr. Yorke soothingly.
"Always the same!" murmured Martin, leaving the room.
"Where art thou going, my son?" asked the father.
"Somewhere where I shall be safe from insult.


Matthew laughed very insolently. Martin threw a strange look at him, and trembled through all his slight lad's frame; but he restrained himself.
"I suppose there is no objection to my withdrawing?" he inquired.
"No. Go, my lad; but remember not to bear malice."
Martin went, and Matthew sent another insolent laugh after him. Rose, lifting her fair head from Moore's shoulder, against which, for a moment, it had been resting, said, as she directed a steady gaze to Matthew, "Martin is grieved, and you are glad; but I would rather be Martin than you. I dislike your nature."

I suppose I may go?"
Matthew laughed insolently. Martin threw a strange look at him, and trembled; but he restrained himself.
"Go, my lad," said Mr. Yorke; "but remember not to bear malice."
Martin went, and Matthew sent another insolent laugh after him. Rose, lifting her fair head from Moore's shoulder, said to Matthew, "Martin is grieved, and you are glad; but I would rather be Martin than you. I dislike your nature."


Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting, or at least escaping, a scene--which a sob from Mrs. Yorke warned him was likely to come on--rose, and putting Jessy off his knee, he kissed her and Rose, reminding them, at the same time, to be sure and come to the Hollow in good time to-morrow afternoon; then, having taken leave of his hostess, he said to Mr. Yorke, "May I speak a word with you?" and was followed by him from the room. Their brief conference took place in the hall.
"Have you employment for a good workman?" asked Moore.
"A nonsense question in these times, when you know that every master has many good workmen to whom he cannot give full employment."
"You must oblige me by taking on this man, if possible."
"My lad, I can take on no more hands to oblige all England."
"It does not signify; I must find him a place somewhere."
"Who is he?"

Here Mr. Moore, by way of averting a scene, stood up and kissed Jessy and Rose, reminding them to come to the Hollow tomorrow afternoon. He said to Mr. Yorke:
"May I speak a word with you?"
They conferred briefly in the hall.
"Have you employment for a good workman?" asked Moore.
"A nonsense question in these times, when you know that every master has many good workmen to whom he cannot give work."
"Oblige me by taking on this man, if possible. I must find him a place somewhere."
"Who is he?"


"William Farren."
"I know William. A right-down honest man is William."

"William Farren."
"I know William. An honest man."


"He has been out of work three months. He has a large family. We are sure they cannot live without wages. He was one of the deputation of cloth-dressers who came to me this morning to complain and threaten. William did not threaten. He only asked me to give them rather more time--to make my changes more slowly. You know I cannot do that: straitened on all sides as I am, I have nothing for it but to push on. I thought it would be idle to palaver long with them. I sent them away, after arresting a rascal amongst them, whom I hope to transport--a fellow who preaches at the chapel yonder sometimes."
"Not Moses Barraclough?"

"He has been out of work three months. He has a large family. He was one of the cloth-dressers who came to me this morning to complain and threaten. William did not threaten. He only asked me to give them more time, but you know I cannot do that. I sent them away, after arresting a rascal amongst them - a fellow who preaches at the chapel yonder."
"Not Moses Barraclough?"


"Yes."
"Ah! you've arrested him? Good! Then out of a scoundrel you're going to make a martyr. You've done a wise thing."
"I've done a right thing. Well, the short and the long of it is, I'm determined to get Farren a place, and I reckon on you to give him one."

"Yes. But I'm determined to get Farren a place, and I rely on you to give him one."


"This is cool, however!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke. "What right have you to reckon on me to provide for your dismissed workmen? What do I know about your Farrens and your Williams? I've heard he's an honest man, but am I to support all the honest men in Yorkshire? You may say that would be no great charge to undertake; but great or little, I'll none of it."
"Come, Mr. Yorke, what can you find for him to do?"

"This is cool!" exclaimed Mr. Yorke. "What right have you to rely on me to provide for your dismissed workmen? I've heard he's an honest man, but am I to support all the honest men in Yorkshire? I'll none of it."
"Come, Mr. Yorke, what can you find for him to do?


"_I_ find! You'll make me use language I'm not accustomed to use. I wish you would go home. Here is the door; set off."
Moore sat down on one of the hall chairs.
"You can't give him work in your mill--good; but you have land. Find him some occupation on your land, Mr. Yorke."
"Bob, I thought you cared nothing about our _lourdauds de paysans_. I don't understand this change."

You have land. Find him some work on your land, Mr. Yorke."
"Bob, I thought you cared nothing about the workmen. I don't understand this change."


"I do. The fellow spoke to me nothing but truth and sense. I answered him just as roughly as I did the rest, who jabbered mere gibberish. I couldn't make distinctions there and then. His appearance told what he had gone through lately clearer than his words; but where is the use of explaining? Let him have work."
"Let him have it yourself. If you are so very much in earnest, strain a point."

"The fellow spoke truth and sense, while the others merely jabbered. Let him have work."
"Let him have it yourself, if you are so very much in earnest."


"If there was a point left in my affairs to strain, I would strain it till it cracked again; but I received letters this morning which showed me pretty clearly where I stand, and it is not far off the end of the plank. My foreign market, at any rate, is gorged. If there is no change--if there dawns no prospect of peace--if the Orders in Council are not, at least, suspended, so as to open our way in the West--I do not know where I am to turn. I see no more light than if I were sealed in a rock, so that for me to pretend to offer a man a livelihood would be to do a dishonest thing."
"Come, let us take a turn on the front. It is a starlight night," said Mr. Yorke.
They passed out, closing the front door after them, and side by side paced the frost-white pavement to and fro.

"I received letters this morning which showed me pretty clearly where I stand," said Moore, "and it is not far off the end of the plank. If there is no change - if the Orders in Council are not suspended - I do not know where I am to turn. I see no light, and for me to pretend to offer a man a livelihood would be dishonest."
"Come, let us take a turn outside. It is a starlit night," said Mr. Yorke.
They went out, and paced the frost-white pavement.


"Settle about Farren at once," urged Mr. Moore. "You have large fruit-gardens at Yorke Mills. He is a good gardener. Give him work there."
"Well, so be it. I'll send for him to-morrow, and we'll see. And now, my lad, you're concerned about the condition of your affairs?"
"Yes, a second failure--which I may delay, but which, at this moment, I see no way finally to avert--would blight the name of Moore completely; and you are aware I had fine intentions of paying off every debt and re-establishing the old firm on its former basis."
"You want capital--that's all you want."
"Yes; but you might as well say that breath is all a dead man wants to live."

"You have large fruit-gardens at Yorke Mills," urged Mr. Moore. "Farren is a good gardener. Give him work there."
"Well, I'll send for him tomorrow, and we'll see. And now, my lad, you're concerned about your affairs?"
"Yes. A second failure would blight the name of Moore completely; and you are aware I had fine intentions of paying off every debt and re-establishing the old firm."
"You need capital - that's all."
"Yes; but you might as well say that breath is all a dead man needs to live."


"I know--I know capital is not to be had for the asking; and if you were a married man, and had a family, like me, I should think your case pretty nigh desperate; but the young and unencumbered have chances peculiar to themselves. I hear gossip now and then about your being on the eve of marriage with this miss and that; but I suppose it is none of it true?"
"You may well suppose that. I think I am not in a position to be dreaming of marriage. Marriage! I cannot bear the word; it sounds so silly and utopian. I have settled it decidedly that marriage and love are superfluities, intended only for the rich, who live at ease, and have no need to take thought for the morrow; or desperations--the last and reckless joy of the deeply wretched, who never hope to rise out of the slough of their utter poverty."
"I should not think so if I were circumstanced as you are. I should think I could very likely get a wife with a few thousands, who would suit both me and my affairs."
"I wonder where?"

"If you were married with a family, I should think your case pretty desperate; but you're young and unencumbered. I hear gossip now and then about your being on the eve of marriage with this miss and that; but I suppose none of it is true?"
"I am not in a position to be dreaming of marriage. Marriage! I cannot bear the word; it sounds so silly and utopian. I have decided that marriage and love are only for the rich; or the deeply wretched, who never hope to rise out of the slough of utter poverty."
"If I were you, I should think I could very likely get a wife with a few thousands, who would suit both me and my affairs.


"Would you try if you had a chance?"
"I don't know. It depends on--in short, it depends on many things."
"Would you take an old woman?"
"I'd rather break stones on the road."
"So would I. Would you take an ugly one?"

Would you try if you had a chance?"
"I don't know."
"Would you take an old woman?"
"I'd rather break stones on the road."
"So would I," said Yorke. "Would you take an ugly one?"


"Bah! I hate ugliness and delight in beauty. My eyes and heart, Yorke, take pleasure in a sweet, young, fair face, as they are repelled by a grim, rugged, meagre one. Soft delicate lines and hues please, harsh ones prejudice me. I won't have an ugly wife."
"Not if she were rich?"
"Not if she were dressed in gems. I could not love--I could not fancy--I could not endure her. My taste must have satisfaction, or disgust would break out in despotism, or worse--freeze to utter iciness."

"Bah! I won't have an ugly wife."
"Not if she were rich?"
"Not if she were dressed in gems. I could not love her - I could not endure her. My disgust would break out in despotism, or worse - freeze to utter iciness."


"What! Bob, if you married an honest, good-natured, and wealthy lass, though a little hard-favoured, couldn't you put up with the high cheek-bones, the rather wide mouth, and reddish hair?"
"I'll never try, I tell you. Grace at least I _will_ have, and youth and symmetry--yes, and what I call beauty."
"And poverty, and a nursery full of bairns you can neither clothe nor feed, and very soon an anxious, faded mother; and then bankruptcy, discredit--a life-long struggle."
"Let me alone, Yorke."
"If you are romantic, Robert, and especially if you are already in love, it is of no use talking."
"I am not romantic. I am stripped of romance as bare as the white tenters in that field are of cloth."

"What! Bob, if you married an honest, good-natured, wealthy lass, though a little hard-favoured, couldn't you put up with the plain features?"
"I'll never try, I tell you. I will have youth, and beauty."
"And poverty, and a nursery full of bairns you can neither clothe nor feed, and very soon an anxious, faded mother; and then bankruptcy and a life-long struggle."
"Let me alone, Yorke."
"If you are romantic, Robert, and especially if you are already in love, it is of no use talking."
"I am not romantic."


"Always use such figures of speech, lad; I can understand them. And there is no love affair to disturb your judgment?"
"I thought I had said enough on that subject before. Love for me? Stuff!"
"Well, then, if you are sound both in heart and head, there is no reason why you should not profit by a good chance if it offers; therefore, wait and see."
"You are quite oracular, Yorke."
"I think I am a bit i' that line. I promise ye naught and I advise ye naught; but I bid ye keep your heart up, and be guided by circumstances."
"My namesake the physician's almanac could not speak more guardedly."

"And there is no love affair to disturb your judgment?"
"I thought I had said that before."
"Well, then, there is no reason why you should not profit by a good chance if it offers; therefore, wait and see. I promise ye naught and I advise ye naught; but keep your heart up.


"In the meantime, I care naught about ye, Robert Moore: ye are nothing akin to me or mine, and whether ye lose or find a fortune it maks no difference to me. Go home, now. It has stricken ten. Miss Hortense will be wondering where ye are."

Go home, now. Miss Hortense will be wondering where ye are."


Roger Carbury said well that it was very improbable that he and his cousin, the widow, should agree in their opinions as to the expedience of fortune-hunting by marriage. It was impossible that they should ever understand each other. To Lady Carbury the prospect of a union between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of unmixed joy and triumph. Could it have been possible that Marie Melmotte should be rich and her father be a man doomed to a deserved sentence in a penal settlement, there might perhaps be a doubt about it. The wealth even in that case would certainly carry the day against the disgrace, and Lady Carbury would find reasons why "poor Marie" should not be punished for her father's sins, even while enjoying the money which those sins had produced. But how different were the existing facts? Mr. Melmotte was not at the galleys, but was entertaining duchesses in Grosvenor Square. People said that Mr. Melmotte had a reputation throughout Europe as a gigantic swindler,--as one who in the dishonest and successful pursuit of wealth had stopped at nothing. People said of him that he had framed and carried out long premeditated and deeply laid schemes for the ruin of those who had trusted him, that he had swallowed up the property of all who had come in contact with him, that he was fed with the blood of widows and children;--but what was all this to Lady Carbury? If the duchesses condoned it all, did it become her to be prudish?

On the subject of fortune-hunting by marriage, it was impossible that Roger and Lady Carbury should ever understand each other. To Lady Carbury the prospect of a union between her son and Miss Melmotte was one of joy and triumph. Even if her father were disgraced, the wealth would certainly carry the day.
But in fact Mr. Melmotte was not in jail, but was entertaining duchesses in Grosvenor Square. People said that he had a reputation throughout Europe as a gigantic swindler, who had carried out schemes for the ruin of those who had trusted him, and had swallowed up the property of all who had come in contact with him. They said that he was fed with the blood of widows and children; - but what was all this to Lady Carbury? If the duchesses condoned it, why should she be prudish?


People also said that Melmotte would yet get a fall,--that a man who had risen after such a fashion never could long keep his head up. But he might keep his head up long enough to give Marie her fortune. And then Felix wanted a fortune so badly;--was so exactly the young man who ought to marry a fortune! To Lady Carbury there was no second way of looking at the matter.

People also said that Melmotte would fall; he couldn't keep his head up for long. But he might keep his head up long enough to give Marie her fortune. And then Felix was so exactly the young man who should marry a fortune! To Lady Carbury there was no other way of looking at the matter.


And to Roger Carbury also there was no second way of looking at it. That condonation of antecedents which, in the hurry of the world, is often vouchsafed to success, that growing feeling which induces people to assert to themselves that they are not bound to go outside the general verdict, and that they may shake hands with whomsoever the world shakes hands with, had never reached him. The old-fashioned idea that the touching of pitch will defile still prevailed with him. He was a gentleman;--and would have felt himself disgraced to enter the house of such a one as Augustus Melmotte. Not all the duchesses in the peerage, or all the money in the city, could alter his notions or induce him to modify his conduct. But he knew that it would be useless for him to explain this to Lady Carbury. He trusted, however, that one of the family might be taught to appreciate the difference between honour and dishonour. Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, a higher turn of mind than her mother, and had as yet been kept free from soil. As for Felix,--he had so grovelled in the gutters as to be dirt all over. Nothing short of the prolonged sufferings of half a life could cleanse him.

And to Roger Carbury also there was no second way of looking at it. He had the old-fashioned idea that the touching of pitch will defile one. He was a gentleman; and would have felt himself disgraced to enter Melmotte's house. Not all the duchesses or money in the city could alter his notions. But he knew that it would be useless to explain this to Lady Carbury. He trusted, however, that Henrietta Carbury might be taught to appreciate the difference between honour and dishonour. Henrietta Carbury had, he thought, a higher turn of mind than her mother.


He found Henrietta alone in the drawing-room. "Have you seen Felix?" she said, as soon as they had greeted each other.
"Yes. I caught him in the street."
"We are so unhappy about him."
"I cannot say but that you have reason. I think, you know, that your mother indulges him foolishly."
"Poor mamma! She worships the very ground he treads on."

He found Henrietta alone in the drawing-room. "Have you seen Felix?" she said.
"Yes. I caught him in the street."
"We are so unhappy about him."
"I think, you know, that your mother indulges him foolishly."
"Poor mamma! She worships the ground he treads on."


"Even a mother should not throw her worship away like that. The fact is that your brother will ruin you both if this goes on."
"What can mamma do?"
"Leave London, and then refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf."
"What would Felix do in the country?"
"If he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he does in town? You would not like him to become a professional gambler."
"Oh, Mr. Carbury; you do not mean that he does that!"

"Even a mother should not throw her worship away like that. Your brother will ruin you both if this goes on."
"What can mamma do?"
"Leave London, and refuse to pay a shilling on his behalf."
"What would Felix do in the country?"
"If he did nothing, how much better would that be than what he does in town? You would not like him to become a professional gambler."
"Oh, Mr. Carbury; you do not mean that he does that!"


"It seems cruel to say such things to you,--but in a matter of such importance one is bound to speak the truth. I have no influence over your mother; but you may have some. She asks my advice, but has not the slightest idea of listening to it. I don't blame her for that; but I am anxious for the sake of--, for the sake of the family."
"I am sure you are."
"Especially for your sake. You will never throw him over."
"You would not ask me to throw him over."
"But he may drag you into the mud. For his sake you have already been taken into the house of that man Melmotte."

"It seems cruel to say it, but I have to speak the truth. I have no influence over your mother; but you may have some. She asks my advice without having the slightest idea of listening to it. I don't blame her for that; but I am anxious for the sake of the family - and especially for you. Felix may drag you into the mud. For his sake you have already been to the house of that man Melmotte."


"I do not think that I shall be injured by anything of that kind," said Henrietta, drawing herself up.
"Pardon me if I seem to interfere."
"Oh, no;--it is no interference from you."
"Pardon me then if I am rough. To me it seems that an injury is done to you if you are made to go to the house of such a one as this man. Why does your mother seek his society? Not because she likes him; not because she has any sympathy with him or his family;--but simply because there is a rich daughter."
"Everybody goes there, Mr. Carbury."

"I do not think that I shall be injured by anything of that kind," said Henrietta, drawing herself up.
"Pardon me if I seem to interfere, or if I am rough. I feel an injury is done to you if you are made to go to the house of such a man. Why does your mother seek his society? Not because she likes him; but simply because there is a rich daughter."
"Everybody goes there, Mr. Carbury."


"Yes,--that is the excuse which everybody makes. Is that sufficient reason for you to go to a man's house? Is there not another place to which we are told that a great many are going, simply because the road has become thronged and fashionable? Have you no feeling that you ought to choose your friends for certain reasons of your own? I admit there is one reason here. They have a great deal of money, and it is thought possible that he may get some of it by falsely swearing to a girl that he loves her. After what you have heard, are the Melmottes people with whom you would wish to be connected?"
"I don't know."

"Yes, that is the excuse which everybody makes. Is that sufficient reason? Have you no feeling that you ought to choose your friends for your own reasons? Are the Melmottes people with whom you would wish to be connected?"
"I don't know."


"I do. I know very well. They are absolutely disgraceful. A social connection with the first crossing-sweeper would be less objectionable." He spoke with a degree of energy of which he was himself altogether unaware. He knit his brows, and his eyes flashed, and his nostrils were extended. Of course she thought of his own offer to herself. Of course her mind at once conceived,--not that the Melmotte connection could ever really affect him, for she felt sure that she would never accept his offer,--but that he might think that he would be so affected. Of course she resented the feeling which she thus attributed to him. But, in truth, he was much too simple-minded for any such complex idea.

"I know very well. They are absolutely disgraceful. A social connection with a crossing-sweeper would be less objectionable." He spoke with a degree of energy of which he was himself unaware. He knit his brows, and his eyes flashed. Of course she thought of his offer to herself. Not that the Melmotte connection could ever really affect him, because she would not marry him - but he might think that he would be so affected. She resented this.
In truth, he was too simple-minded for any such complex idea.


"Felix," he continued, "has already descended so far that I cannot pretend to be anxious as to what houses he may frequent. But I should be sorry to think that you should often be seen at Mr. Melmotte's."
"I think, Mr. Carbury, that mamma will take care that I am not taken where I ought not to be taken."
"I wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper for you."
"I hope I have. I am sorry you should think that I have not."
"I am old-fashioned, Hetta."

"Felix," he continued, "has already descended so far that I cannot pretend to be anxious about him. But I should be sorry to think that you should often be seen at Mr. Melmotte's."
"I think, Mr. Carbury, that mamma will not take me where I ought not to be taken."
"I wish you to have some opinion of your own as to what is proper for you."
"I hope I have. I am sorry you should think that I have not."
"I am old-fashioned, Hetta."


"And we belong to a newer and worse sort of world. I dare say it is so. You have been always very kind, but I almost doubt whether you can change us now. I have sometimes thought that you and mamma were hardly fit for each other."
"I have thought that you and I were,--or possibly might be fit for each other."
"Oh,--as for me, I shall always take mamma's side. If mamma chooses to go to the Melmottes I shall certainly go with her. If that is contamination, I suppose I must be contaminated. I don't see why I'm to consider myself better than any one else."
"I have always thought that you were better than any one else."

"And I daresay we belong to a newer and worse sort of world. You have always been very kind, but I doubt whether you can change us now. If mamma chooses to go to the Melmottes I shall go with her. If that is contamination, I suppose I must be contaminated. I don't see why I'm to consider myself better than anyone else."
"I have always thought that you were better than anyone else," said Roger.


"That was before I went to the Melmottes. I am sure you have altered your opinion now. Indeed, you have told me so. I am afraid, Mr. Carbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours."
He looked into her face as she spoke, and gradually began to perceive the working of her mind. He was so true himself that he did not understand that there should be with her even that violet-coloured tinge of prevarication which women assume as an additional charm. Could she really have thought that he was attending to his own possible future interests when he warned her as to the making of new acquaintances?
"For myself," he said, putting out his hand and making a slight vain effort to get hold of hers, "I have only one wish in the world; and that is, to travel the same road with you. I do not say that you ought to wish it too; but you ought to know that I am sincere. When I spoke of the Melmottes, did you believe that I was thinking of myself?"

"That was before I went to the Melmottes. I am sure you have altered your opinion now. I am afraid, Mr. Carbury, you must go your way, and we must go ours."
He looked into her face as she spoke, and gradually began to perceive the working of her mind. Could she really have thought that he was concerned with his own possible future interests when he warned her about her new acquaintances?
"For myself," he said, making a vain effort to take her hand, "I have only one wish in the world; and that is to travel the same road with you. You must know that I am sincere. When I spoke of the Melmottes, did you believe that I was thinking of myself?"


"Oh no;--how should I?"
"I was speaking to you then as to a cousin who might regard me as an elder brother. No contact with legions of Melmottes could make you other to me than the woman on whom my heart has settled. Even were you in truth disgraced,--could disgrace touch one so pure as you,--it would be the same. I love you so well that I have already taken you for better or for worse. I cannot change. My nature is too stubborn for such changes. Have you a word to say to comfort me?" She turned away her head, but did not answer him at once. "Do you understand how much I am in need of comfort?"

"Oh no; how should I?"
"I was speaking to you as a cousin. No contact with legions of Melmottes could make you other than the woman on whom my heart has settled. I love you so well that I have already taken you for better or for worse. I cannot change. My nature is too stubborn. Have you a word to comfort me?" She turned away her head, but did not answer. "Do you understand how much I am in need of comfort?"


"You can do very well without comfort from me."
"No, indeed. I shall live, no doubt; but I shall not do very well. As it is, I am not doing at all well. I am becoming sour and moody, and ill at ease with my friends. I would have you believe me, at any rate, when I say I love you."
"I suppose you mean something."

"You can do very well without comfort from me."
"I shall live, no doubt; but I am not doing very well. I am becoming sour and moody, and ill at ease with my friends. Please believe me, at any rate, when I say I love you."
"I suppose you mean something."


"I mean a great deal, dear. I mean all that a man can mean. That is it. You hardly understand that I am serious to the extent of ecstatic joy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on the other. I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to be married to some one else."
"What can I say, Mr. Carbury?"
"That you will love me."
"But if I don't?"
"Say that you will try."

"I mean a great deal, dear. I mean all that a man can mean. That is it. You hardly understand that I am serious to the extent of ecstatic joy on the one side, and utter indifference to the world on the other. I shall never give it up till I learn that you are to be married to someone else."
"What can I say, Mr. Carbury?"
"That you will love me."
"But if I don't?"
"Say that you will try."


"No; I will not say that. Love should come without a struggle. I don't know how one person is to try to love another in that way. I like you very much; but being married is such a terrible thing."
"It would not be terrible to me, dear."
"Yes;--when you found that I was too young for your tastes."
"I shall persevere, you know. Will you assure me of this,--that if you promise your hand to another man, you will let me know at once?"
"I suppose I may promise that," she said, after pausing for a moment.
"There is no one as yet?"

"No; I will not say that. Love should come without a struggle. I don't know how one person is to try to love another in that way. I like you very much; but being married is such a terrible thing."
"It would not be terrible to me, dear."
"Yes; when you found that I was too young for your tastes."
"I shall persevere, you know. If you promise your hand to another man, will you let me know at once?"
"I suppose so," she said.
"There is no one yet?"


"There is no one. But, Mr. Carbury, you have no right to question me. I don't think it generous. I allow you to say things that nobody else could say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you so much. No one but mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for any one."
"Are you angry with me?"
"No."
"If I have offended you it is because I love you so dearly."

"No. But, Mr. Carbury, you have no right to question me. I don't think it generous. I allow you to say things that nobody else could say because you are a cousin and because mamma trusts you. But no one except mamma has a right to ask me whether I care for anyone."
"If I have offended you it is because I love you so dearly."


"I am not offended, but I don't like to be questioned by a gentleman. I don't think any girl would like it. I am not to tell everybody all that happens."
"Perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon it you will forgive me. Good-bye now." She put out her hand to him and allowed it to remain in his for a moment. "When I walk about the old shrubberies at Carbury where we used to be together, I am always asking myself what chance there is of your walking there as the mistress."
"There is no chance."
"I am, of course, prepared to hear you say so. Well; good-bye, and may God bless you."

"I am not offended, but I don't like to be questioned by a gentleman."
"Perhaps when you reflect how much of my happiness depends upon it you will forgive me. Good-bye now." She put out her hand to him and allowed it to remain in his for a moment. "When I walk about the old shrubberies at Carbury, I am always asking myself what chance there is of your walking there as the mistress."
"There is no chance," she said.
"I am, of course, prepared to hear you say so. Well; good-bye, and may God bless you."


The man had no poetry about him. He did not even care for romance. All the outside belongings of love which are so pleasant to many men and which to many women afford the one sweetness in life which they really relish, were nothing to him. There are both men and women to whom even the delays and disappointments of love are charming, even when they exist to the detriment of hope. It is sweet to such persons to be melancholy, sweet to pine, sweet to feel that they are now wretched after a romantic fashion as have been those heroes and heroines of whose sufferings they have read in poetry. But there was nothing of this with Roger Carbury. He had, as he believed, found the woman that he really wanted, who was worthy of his love, and now, having fixed his heart upon her, he longed for her with an amazing longing. He had spoken the simple truth when he declared that life had become indifferent to him without her. No man in England could be less likely to throw himself off the Monument or to blow out his brains. But he felt numbed in all the joints of his mind by this sorrow.

The man had no poetry about him. All the embellishments of love were nothing to him. There are men and women to whom even the delays and disappointments of love are charming. It is sweet to such persons to be melancholy, sweet to pine in a romantic fashion. But there was nothing of this with Roger Carbury. Having fixed his heart upon Henrietta, he longed for her with an amazing longing. He had spoken the simple truth when he declared that life was indifferent to him without her. No man in England was less likely to blow out his brains. But he felt numbed in all the joints of his mind by this sorrow.


He could not make one thing bear upon another, so as to console himself after any fashion. There was but one thing for him;--to persevere till he got her, or till he had finally lost her. And should the latter be his fate, as he began to fear that it would be, then, he would live, but live only, like a crippled man.

There was only one thing for him: to persevere till he got her, or till he finally lost her. And should the latter be his fate, as he began to fear it would be, then he would live like a crippled man.


He felt almost sure in his heart of hearts that the girl loved that other, younger man. That she had never owned to such love he was quite sure. The man himself and Henrietta also had both assured him on this point, and he was a man easily satisfied by words and prone to believe. But he knew that Paul Montague was attached to her, and that it was Paul's intention to cling to his love. Sorrowfully looking forward through the vista of future years, he thought he saw that Henrietta would become Paul's wife. Were it so, what should he do? Annihilate himself as far as all personal happiness in the world was concerned, and look solely to their happiness, their prosperity, and their joys? Be as it were a beneficent old fairy to them, though the agony of his own disappointment should never depart from him? Should he do this, and be blessed by them,--or should he let Paul Montague know what deep resentment such ingratitude could produce? When had a father been kinder to a son, or a brother to a brother, than he had been to Paul?

He felt almost sure that the girl loved Paul. That she had never confessed such love he was quite sure. Paul and Henrietta had both assured him on this point, and he believed them. But he knew that Paul Montague was attached to her. Sorrowfully looking forward through future years, he thought that Henrietta would become Paul's wife.
Were it so, what should he do? Forget all personal happiness, and look solely to their prosperity, and their joys? Be a beneficent fairy godfather to them, in the agony of his own disappointment? Or should he let Paul Montague know of his deep resentment of Paul's ingratitude? What father had been kinder to a son, or brother to a brother, than he had been to Paul?


His home had been the young man's home, and his purse the young man's purse. What right could the young man have to come upon him just as he was perfecting his bliss and rob him of all that he had in the world? He was conscious all the while that there was a something wrong in his argument,--that Paul when he commenced to love the girl knew nothing of his friend's love,--that the girl, though Paul had never come in the way, might probably have been as obdurate as she was now to his entreaties. He knew all this because his mind was clear. But yet the injustice,--at any rate, the misery was so great, that to forgive it and to reward it would be weak, womanly, and foolish. Roger Carbury did not quite believe in the forgiveness of injuries. If you pardon all the evil done to you, you encourage others to do you evil! If you give your cloak to him who steals your coat, how long will it be before your shirt and trousers will go also? Roger Carbury returned that afternoon to Suffolk, and as he thought of it all throughout the journey, he resolved that he would never forgive Paul Montague if Paul Montague should become his cousin's husband.

His home had been the young man's home, and his purse the young man's purse. What right did Paul have to rob him of all that he had in the world?
He was conscious that there was something wrong in his argument; that Paul when he began to love the girl knew nothing of Roger's love - that the girl would probably have refused him even without Paul. He knew all this. But still the injustice was so great, that to forgive it would be weak, womanly, and foolish. Roger Carbury did not quite believe in forgiving injuries. If you pardon all the evil done to you, you encourage others to do you evil.
He returned that afternoon to Suffolk, and as he thought about it during the journey, he resolved that he would never forgive Paul Montague if Paul became his cousin's husband.


During all these days Miss Melmotte was by no means contented with her lover's prowess, though she would not allow herself to doubt his sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection in the presence of her father and mother, had not only offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written to him, telling how she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and how willing she was to make it her own, to throw over her father and mother, and give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that she had been very gracious to her lover, and that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But, nevertheless, she was true to her lover, and believed that he was true to her. Didon had been hitherto faithful. Marie had written various letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply, containing hardly more than a word or two each. But now she was told that a day was absolutely fixed for her marriage with Lord Nidderdale, and that her things were to be got ready. She was to be married in the middle of August, and here they were, approaching the end of June. "You may buy what you like, mamma," she said; "and if papa agrees about Felix, why then I suppose they'll do. But they'll never be of any use about Lord Nidderdale.

Meanwhile Miss Melmotte was not contented with her lover's prowess, though she did not doubt his sincerity. She had not only assured him of her undying affection, and had offered to be chopped in pieces on his behalf, but had also written telling him she had a large sum of her father's money within her power, and was willing to give herself and her fortune to her lover. She felt that her lover was a little slow in acknowledging the favours conferred upon him. But, nevertheless, she believed that he was true to her.
Through Didon, Marie had written various letters to Sir Felix, and had received two or three very short notes in reply. But now, in June, she was told that a day was fixed for her marriage with Lord Nidderdale, in the middle of August.
"You may buy what wedding clothes you like, mamma," she said; "but


If you were to sew me up in the things by main force, I wouldn't have him." Madame Melmotte groaned, and scolded in English, French, and German, and wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, and ass, and a toad, and a dog. And ended, as she always did end, by swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself. "Nobody shall manage this matter for me," said Marie. "I know what I'm about now, and I won't marry anybody just because it will suit papa." "Que nous tions encore Francfort, ou New York," said the elder lady, remembering the humbler but less troubled times of her earlier life. Marie did not care for Francfort or New York; for Paris or for London;--but she did care for Sir Felix Carbury.

 if you were to sew me up in the things by force, I wouldn't have Lord Nidderdale."
Madame Melmotte groaned and scolded, and wished that she were dead; she told Marie that she was a pig, an ass, a toad, and a dog. She ended, as always, by swearing that Melmotte must manage the matter himself.
"Nobody shall manage this matter for me," said Marie. "I know what I'm about now, and I won't marry anybody just to suit papa."


While her father on Sunday morning was transacting business in his own house with Paul Montague and the great commercial magnates of the city,--though it may be doubted whether that very respectable gentleman Sir Gregory Gribe was really in Grosvenor Square when his name was mentioned,--Marie was walking inside the gardens; Didon was also there at some distance from her; and Sir Felix Carbury was there also close along side of her. Marie had the key of the gardens for her own use; and had already learned that her neighbours in the square did not much frequent the place during church time on Sunday morning. Her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she had taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix, who had thought much of the letter as he came from Welbeck Street to keep his appointment,--having been assured by Didon that the gate should be left unlocked, and that she would be there to close it after he had come in,--was of course ready with a lie. "It was the only thing to do, Marie;--it was indeed."
"But you said you had accepted some offer."
"You don't suppose I wrote the letter?"
"It was your handwriting, Felix."

On Sunday morning, while her father was doing business with Paul Montague in Grosvenor Square, Marie was walking in the square's gardens. Didon was there, at some distance; and Sir Felix Carbury was alongside her. Marie had learned that her neighbours did not frequent the square during church time on Sunday morning.
Her lover's letter to her father had of course been shown to her, and she taxed him with it immediately. Sir Felix was ready with a lie.
"It was the only thing to do, Marie; it was indeed.


"Of course it was. I copied just what he put down. He'd have sent you clean away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written it."
"And you have accepted nothing?"
"Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. Is not that odd? I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him yet." Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for 200.
"Nobody ever does who gives papa money," said the observant daughter.

I just copied what he put down. He'd have sent you away where I couldn't have got near you if I hadn't written it."
"And you have accepted nothing for it?"
"Not at all. As it is, he owes me money. I gave him a thousand pounds to buy shares, and I haven't got anything from him yet." Sir Felix, no doubt, forgot the cheque for 200.
"Nobody ever does who gives papa money," said the observant daughter.


"Don't they? Dear me! But I just wrote it because I thought anything better than a downright quarrel."
"I wouldn't have written it, if it had been ever so."
"It's no good scolding, Marie. I did it for the best. What do you think we'd best do now?" Marie looked at him, almost with scorn. Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield. "I wonder whether you're sure you're right about that money which you say is settled."

"Don't they? Dear me! What do you think we'd best do now?"
Marie looked at him almost with scorn. Surely it was for him to propose and for her to yield.
"I wonder whether you're sure about that money which you say is settled," said Felix.


[Illustration: "It's no good scolding."]


"I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris,--just when we were coming away,--that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and of course I said I would. But of course I won't,--if I should have a husband of my own." Felix walked along, pondering the matter, with his hands in his trowsers pockets. He entertained those very fears which had latterly fallen upon Lord Nidderdale. There would be no "cropper" which a man could "come" so bad as would be his cropper were he to marry Marie Melmotte, and then find that he was not to have a shilling! And, were he now to run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him. This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too doubtful! The game to be played was too full of danger!

"I'm quite sure. Mamma told me in Paris that it was done so that there might be something if things went wrong. And papa told me that he should want me to sign something from time to time; and I said I would. But of course I won't if I have a husband of my own."
Felix pondered the matter. If he were to run off with Marie, after having written that letter, the father would certainly not forgive him. This assurance of Marie's as to the settled money was too doubtful. The game to be played was too full of danger.


And in that case he would certainly get neither his 800, nor the shares. And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him with ready money. But then here was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement. Some half promise would be the only escape for the present. "What are you thinking of, Felix?" she asked.
"It's d---- difficult to know what to do."
"But you do love me?"

And if he were true to Melmotte, Melmotte would probably supply him with ready money.
But then here was the girl at his elbow, and he no more dared to tell her to her face that he meant to give her up, than he dared to tell Melmotte that he intended to stick to his engagement. Some half promise was the only escape for the present.
"It's d___ difficult to know what to do," he said.
"But you do love me?"


"Of course I do. If I didn't love you why should I be here walking round this stupid place? They talk of your being married to Nidderdale about the end of August."
"Some day in August. But that's all nonsense, you know. They can't take me up and marry me, as they used to do the girls ever so long ago. I won't marry him. He don't care a bit for me, and never did. I don't think you care much, Felix."

"Of course I do. If I didn't love you why should I be walking round this stupid place? They talk of your marrying Nidderdale in August."
"That's all nonsense. They can't make me. He don't care a bit for me, and never did. I don't think you care much, Felix."


"Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I could say it often enough."
"I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be."
"Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet."
"You're not going to give it up!"
"Oh no;--not give it up; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow doesn't know what to do."

"Yes, I do. A fellow can't go on saying so over and over again in a beastly place like this. If we were anywhere jolly together, then I could say it often enough."
"I wish we were, Felix. I wonder whether we ever shall be."
"Upon my word I hardly see my way as yet."
"You're not giving it up!"
"Oh no; certainly not. But the bother is a fellow doesn't know what to do."


"You've heard of young Mr. Goldsheiner, haven't you?" suggested Marie.
"He's one of those city chaps."
"And Lady Julia Start?"
"She's old Lady Catchboy's daughter. Yes; I've heard of them. They got spliced last winter."
"Yes,--somewhere in Switzerland, I think. At any rate they went to Switzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate."

"You've heard of young Mr. Goldsheiner, haven't you?" suggested Marie. "He married Lady Julia Start last winter in Switzerland, and now they've got a house close to Albert Gate."


"How jolly for them! He is awfully rich, isn't he?"
"I don't suppose he's half so rich as papa. They did all they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone just as the tidal boat was starting. Didon says that nothing was easier."
"Oh;--ah. Didon knows all about it."
"That she does."
"But she'd lose her place."

"How jolly! He is awfully rich, isn't he?"
"Not half so rich as papa. They did all they could to prevent her going, but she met him down at Folkestone. Didon says that nothing was easier."
"Oh; ah. Didon knows all about it."


"There are plenty of places. She could come and live with us, and be my maid. If you would give her 50 for herself, she'd arrange it all."
"And would you come to Folkestone?"
"I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. We should make it a little different. If you liked I wouldn't mind going to--New York. And then, perhaps, we might--get--married, you know, on board. That's what Didon thinks."
"And would Didon go too?"

"For 50, Didon would arrange it all."
"And would you come to Folkestone?"
"I think that would be stupid, because Lady Julia did that. I wouldn't mind going to New York. And then, perhaps, we might - get married, you know, on board ship. That's what Didon thinks."
"And would Didon go too?"


"That's what she proposes. She could go as my aunt, and I'd call myself by her name;--any French name you know. I should go as a French girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. We wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn't--marry us on board, they would at New York, instantly."
"That's Didon's plan?"

"She could go as my aunt. I should go as a French girl. And you could call yourself Smith, and be an American. We wouldn't go together, but we'd get on board just at the last moment. If they wouldn't marry us on board, they would at New York.


"That's what she thinks best,--and she'll do it, if you'll give her 50 for herself, you know. The 'Adriatic,'--that's a White Star boat, goes on Thursday week at noon. There's an early train that would take us down that morning. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and take no notice of us at all till we meet on board. We could be back in a month,--and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it."

The Adriatic - that's a White Star boat - goes from Liverpool on Thursday week at noon. There's an early train we could get. You had better go and sleep at Liverpool, and take no notice of us till we meet on board. We could be back in a month - and then papa would be obliged to make the best of it."


Sir Felix at once felt that it would be quite unnecessary for him to go to Herr Vossner or to any other male counsellor for advice as to the best means of carrying off his love. The young lady had it all at her fingers' ends,--even to the amount of the fee required by the female counsellor. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds if he were to resolve that he would do this thing? He had been fool enough to intrust his ready money to Melmotte, and now he was told that when Melmotte got hold of ready money he was not apt to release it. And he had nothing to show;--no security that he could offer to Vossner. And then,--this idea of starting to New York with Melmotte's daughter immediately after he had written to Melmotte renouncing the girl, frightened him.
"There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune."

Sir Felix felt that the young lady had it all at her fingers' ends. But Thursday week was very near, and the whole thing was taking uncomfortably defined proportions. Where was he to get funds to do this? And the idea of starting to New York with Melmotte's daughter, immediately after he had written to Melmotte renouncing the girl, frightened him.


Sir Felix did not know these lines, but the lesson taught by them came home to him at this moment. Now was the tide in his affairs at which he might make himself, or utterly mar himself. "It's deuced important," he said at last with a groan.
"It's not more important for you than me," said Marie.
"If you're wrong about the money, and he shouldn't come round, where should we be then?"
"Nothing venture, nothing have," said the heiress.
"That's all very well; but one might venture everything and get nothing after all."
"You'd get me," said Marie with a pout.

Now was the time come when he might make himself, or utterly mar himself.
"It's deuced important," he said with a groan. "If you're wrong about the money, and he shouldn't come round, where would we be then?"
"Nothing venture, nothing have," said the heiress.
"That's all very well; but one might venture everything and get nothing after all."
"You'd get me," said Marie with a pout.


"Yes;--and I'm awfully fond of you. Of course I should get you! But--"
"Very well then;--if that's your love," said Marie, turning back from him.
Sir Felix gave a great sigh, and then announced his resolution. "I'll venture it."
"Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!"
"There's a great deal to do, you know. I don't know whether it can be Thursday week." He was putting in the coward's plea for a reprieve.

"Yes - and I'm awfully fond of you, of course. But-"
"Very well; if that's your love," she said, turning away.
Sir Felix gave a great sigh. "I'll venture it."
"Oh, Felix, how grand it will be!"
"There's a great deal to do, you know. I don't know whether it can be Thursday week."


"I shall be afraid of Didon if it's delayed long."
"There's the money to get, and all that."
"I can get some money. Mamma has money in the house."
"How much?" asked the baronet eagerly.
"A hundred pounds, perhaps;--perhaps two hundred."

"I shall be afraid of Didon if it's delayed long."
"There's the money to get, and all that."
"I can get some money. Mamma has money in the house."
"How much?" asked the baronet eagerly.
"A hundred pounds; perhaps two hundred."


"That would help certainly. I must go to your father for money. Won't that be a sell? To get it from him, to take you away!"

"That would help, certainly. I must go to your father for money. Won't that be a sell? To get it from him, to take you away!"


It was decided that they were to go to New York, on a Thursday,--on Thursday week if possible, but as to that he was to let her know in a day or two. Didon was to pack up the clothes and get it sent out of the house. Didon was to have 50 before she went on board; and as one of the men must know about it, and must assist in having the trunks smuggled out of the house, he was to have 10. All had been settled beforehand, so that Sir Felix really had no need to think about anything. "And now," said Marie, "there's Didon. Nobody's looking and she can open that gate for you. When we're gone, do you creep out. The gate can be left, you know. Then we'll get out on the other side." Marie Melmotte was certainly a clever girl.

It was decided that they were to go to New York, on Thursday week if possible. Didon was to pack up the clothes. Didon would be paid 50; and as one of the men must know about it, and help smuggle the trunks out, he was to have 10. Sir Felix really had no need to think about anything.
"And now," said Marie, "there's Didon. You leave through that gate, and we'll get out on the other side." Marie Melmotte was certainly a clever girl.


Sir Felix as he walked down to his club felt that he had been checkmated,--and was at the same time full of wrath at the insolence of the man who had so easily beaten him out of the field. As far as he could see, the game was over. No doubt he might marry Marie Melmotte. The father had told him so much himself, and he perfectly believed the truth of that oath which Marie had sworn. He did not doubt but that she'd stick to him close enough. She was in love with him, which was natural; and was a fool,--which was perhaps also natural. But romance was not the game which he was playing. People told him that when girls succeeded in marrying without their parents' consent, fathers were always constrained to forgive them at last. That might be the case with ordinary fathers. But Melmotte was decidedly not an ordinary father.

Sir Felix felt that he had been checkmated - and was at the same time full of wrath at Melmotte's insolence. As far as he could see, the game was over. No doubt he might marry Marie Melmotte. She was in love with him, which was natural; and was a fool, which was perhaps also natural. But Melmotte would not forgive his daughter for marrying without his consent.


He was,--so Sir Felix declared to himself,--perhaps the greatest brute ever created. Sir Felix could not but remember that elevation of the eyebrows, and the brazen forehead, and the hard mouth. He had found himself quite unable to stand up against Melmotte, and now he cursed and swore at the man as he was carried down to the Beargarden in a cab.

He was - so Sir Felix declared to himself - the greatest brute ever created. Sir Felix had found himself quite unable to stand up against Melmotte, and now he cursed the man as he was carried down to the Beargarden in a cab.


But what should he do? Should he abandon Marie Melmotte altogether, never go to Grosvenor Square again, and drop the whole family, including the Great Mexican Railway? Then an idea occurred to him. Nidderdale had explained to him the result of his application for shares. "You see we haven't bought any and therefore can't sell any. There seems to be something in that. I shall explain it all to my governor, and get him to go a thou' or two. If he sees his way to get the money back, he'd do that and let me have the difference." On that Sunday afternoon Sir Felix thought over all this. "Why shouldn't he 'go a thou,' and get the difference?"

But what should he do? Should he abandon Marie Melmotte altogether, and drop the whole family, including the Great Mexican Railway? An idea occurred to him. Nidderdale had explained to him the result of his application for shares.
"You see we haven't bought any and therefore can't sell any. There seems to be something in that. I shall explain it all to my governor, and get him to let me have a thousand or two."
Sir Felix thought this over, and


He made a mental calculation. 12 10_s._ per 100! 125 for a thousand! and all paid in ready money. As far as Sir Felix could understand, directly the one operation had been perfected the thousand pounds would be available for another. As he looked into it with all his intelligence he thought that he began to perceive that that was the way in which the Melmottes of the world made their money. There was but one objection. He had not got the entire thousand pounds. But luck had been on the whole very good to him. He had more than the half of it in real money, lying at a bank in the city at which he had opened an account.

 made a mental calculation. 12 10s. per 100! 125 for a thousand! and paid in ready money. As far as Sir Felix could understand, as soon as one operation had been completed the thousand pounds would be available for another.
There was just one objection. He had not got a thousand pounds. But luck had been good to him, and he had more than half that amount lying at a bank in the city.


And he had very much more than the remainder in I. O. U.'s from Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall. In fact if every man had his own,--and his bosom glowed with indignation as he reflected on the injustice with which he was kept out of his own,--he could go into the city and take up his shares to-morrow, and still have ready money at his command. If he could do this, would not such conduct on his part be the best refutation of that charge of not having any fortune which Melmotte had brought against him? He would endeavour to work the money out of Dolly Longestaffe;--and he entertained an idea that though it would be impossible to get cash from Miles Grendall, he might use his claim against Miles in the city. Miles was Secretary to the Board, and might perhaps contrive that the money required for the shares should not be all ready money. Sir Felix was not very clear about it, but thought that he might possibly in this way use the indebtedness of Miles Grendall. "How I do hate a fellow who does not pay up," he said to himself as he sat alone in his club, waiting for some friend to come in. And he formed in his head Draconic laws which he would fain have executed upon men who lost money at play and did not pay.

And he had very much more than the remainder in I.O.U.'s from Dolly Longestaffe and Miles Grendall. In fact, if every man paid up, he could take up his shares tomorrow. Would that not refute Melmotte's charge of not having any fortune? He would try to get the money out of Dolly Longestaffe; and though it would be impossible to get cash from Miles Grendall, he might use his claim against Miles, who was Secretary to the Board, and could perhaps contrive that the money required for the shares should not be all ready money.
As he sat in his club,


"How the deuce fellows can look one in the face, is what I can't understand," he said to himself.
He thought over this great stroke of exhibiting himself to Melmotte as a capitalist till he gave up his idea of abandoning his suit. So he wrote a note to Marie Melmotte in accordance with her instructions.
DEAR M.,
Your father cut up very rough,--about money. Perhaps you had better see him yourself; or would your mother?
Yours always,
F.
This, as directed, he put under cover to Madame Didon,--Grosvenor Square, and posted at the club. He had put nothing at any rate in the letter which could commit him.

 he thought over this great stroke till he gave up his idea of abandoning his suit. So he wrote a note to Marie Melmotte:
Dear M.,
Your father cut up very rough about money. Perhaps you had better see him yourself; or would your mother?
Yours always,
F.
This, as directed, he addressed to Madame Didon, and posted at the club.


There was generally on Sundays a house dinner, so called, at eight o'clock. Five or six men would sit down, and would always gamble afterwards. On this occasion Dolly Longestaffe sauntered in at about seven in quest of sherry and bitters, and Felix found the opportunity a good one to speak of his money. "You couldn't cash your I. O. U.'s for me to-morrow;--could you?"
"To-morrow! oh, lord!"

On Sundays there was generally a house dinner, so called, at eight o'clock. Five or six men would sit down, and gamble afterwards. On this occasion Dolly Longestaffe sauntered in at about seven, and Felix said, "You couldn't cash your I.O.U.'s for me tomorrow; could you?"
"Tomorrow! oh, lord!"


"I'll tell you why. You know I'd tell you anything because I think we are really friends. I'm after that daughter of Melmotte's."
"I'm told you're to have her."
"I don't know about that. I mean to try at any rate. I've gone in you know for that Board in the city."
"I don't know anything about Boards, my boy."
"Yes, you do, Dolly. You remember that American fellow, Montague's friend, that was here one night and won all our money."

"I'll tell you why, because you're a friend. I'm after that daughter of Melmotte's."
"I'm told you're to have her."
"I don't know about that. I mean to try. I've gone in for that Board in the city."
"I don't know anything about Boards, my boy."


"The chap that had the waistcoat, and went away in the morning to California. Fancy starting to California after a hard night. I always wondered whether he got there alive."
"Well;--I can't explain to you all about it, because you hate those kinds of things."
"And because I am such a fool."
"I don't think you're a fool at all, but it would take a week. But it's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in the city to-morrow;--or perhaps Wednesday might do. I'm bound to pay for them, and old Melmotte will think that I'm utterly hard up if I don't. Indeed he said as much, and the only objection about me and this girl of his is as to money. Can't you understand, now, how important it may be?"

"Well, it would take a week to explain it all, but it's absolutely essential for me to take up a lot of shares in the city tomorrow; or perhaps Wednesday. Old Melmotte will think that I'm utterly hard up if I don't pay for them. Can't you understand, now, how important it may be?"


"It's always important to have a lot of money. I know that."
"I shouldn't have gone in for this kind of thing if I hadn't thought I was sure. You know how much you owe me, don't you?"
"Not in the least."
"It's about eleven hundred pounds!"
"I shouldn't wonder."
"And Miles Grendall owes me two thousand. Grasslough and Nidderdale when they lose always pay with Miles's I. O. U.'s."

"It's always important to have a lot of money. I know that."
"You know how much you owe me, don't you?"
"Not in the least."
"It's about eleven hundred pounds!"
"I shouldn't wonder."
"And Miles Grendall owes me two thousand. Grasslough and Nidderdale always pay me with Miles's I.O.U.'s.


"So should I, if I had them."
"It'll come to that soon that there won't be any other stuff going, and they really ain't worth anything. I don't see what's the use of playing when this rubbish is shoved about the table. As for Grendall himself, he has no feeling about it."
"Not the least, I should say."
"You'll try and get me the money, won't you, Dolly?"

They ain't really worth anything. I don't see what's the use of playing when this rubbish is shoved about the table. But you'll try and get me the money, won't you, Dolly?"


"Melmotte has been at me twice. He wants me to agree to sell something. He's an old thief, and of course he means to rob me. You may tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way I've proposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it. I don't know any other way."
"You could write me that,--in a business sort of way."

"Melmotte has been at me twice," said Dolly Longestaffe. "He wants me to agree to sell something. He's an old thief, and he means to rob me. You may tell him that if he'll let me have the money in the way I've proposed, you are to have a thousand pounds out of it. I don't know any other way."
"You could write that in a business letter."


"I couldn't do that, Carbury. What's the use? I never write any letters. I can't do it. You tell him that; and if the sale comes off, I'll make it straight."
Miles Grendall also dined there, and after dinner, in the smoking-room, Sir Felix tried to do a little business with the Secretary. He began his operations with unusual courtesy, believing that the man must have some influence with the great distributor of shares. "I'm going to take up my shares in that company," said Sir Felix.
"Ah;--indeed." And Miles enveloped himself from head to foot in smoke.

"I couldn't, Carbury. I never write letters. You tell him that if the sale comes off, I'll make it straight."
Miles Grendall also dined there, and in the smoking-room after dinner, Sir Felix tried to do a little business with him, believing that he must have some influence with Melmotte.
"I'm going to take up my shares in that company," said Sir Felix.


"I didn't quite understand about it, but Nidderdale saw Melmotte and he has explained it. I think I shall go in for a couple of thousand on Wednesday."
"Oh;--ah."
"It will be the proper thing to do;--won't it?"
"Very good--thing to do!" Miles Grendall smoked harder and harder as the suggestions were made to him.
"Is it always ready money?"
"Always ready money," said Miles shaking his head, as though in reprobation of so abominable an institution.
"I suppose they allow some time to their own Directors, if a deposit, say 50 per cent., is made for the shares?"
"They'll give you half the number, which would come to the same thing."

"Nidderdale saw Melmotte and he has explained it. I think I shall go in for a couple of thousand on Wednesday."
"Oh; ah."
"It will be the proper thing to do, won't it?"
"Very good thing to do!" Miles Grendall smoked harder.
"Is it always ready money?"
"Always ready money," said Miles, shaking his head.
"I suppose they allow some time to their own Directors, if a deposit, say 50 per cent, is made for the shares?"
"They'll give you half the number, which would come to the same thing."


Sir Felix turned this over in his mind, but let him look at it as he would, could not see the truth of his companion's remark. "You know I should want to sell again,--for the rise."
"Oh; you'll want to sell again."
"And therefore I must have the full number."
"You could sell half the number, you know," said Miles.
"I'm determined to begin with ten shares;--that's 1,000. Well;--I have got the money, but I don't want to draw out so much. Couldn't you manage for me that I should get them on paying 50 per cent. down?"
"Melmotte does all that himself."

Sir Felix turned this over in his mind, but could not see the truth of it. "You know I should want to sell again - for the rise."
"Oh; you'll want to sell again."
"I want to begin with ten shares; that's 1,000. I have got the money, but I don't want to draw out so much. Couldn't you manage for me that I should get them on paying 50 per cent down?"
"Melmotte does all that himself."


"You could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your own payments to me." This Sir Felix said, thinking it to be a delicate mode of introducing his claim upon the Secretary.
"That's private," said Miles frowning.
"Of course it's private; but if you would pay me the money I could buy the shares with it, though they are public."
"I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carbury."
"You can't help me?"
"Not in that way."

"You could explain, you know, that you are a little short in your own payments to me." Sir Felix thought this was a delicate way of introducing his claim upon the Secretary.
"That's private," said Miles, frowning.
"Of course it's private; but if you would pay me the money I could buy the shares."
"I don't think we could mix the two things together, Carbury."


"Then, when the deuce will you pay me what you owe me?" Sir Felix was driven to this plain expression of his demand by the impassibility of his debtor. Here was a man who did not pay his debts of honour, who did not even propose any arrangement for paying them, and who yet had the impudence to talk of not mixing up private matters with affairs of business! It made the young baronet very sick. Miles Grendall smoked on in silence. There was a difficulty in answering the question, and he therefore made no answer. "Do you know how much you owe me?" continued the baronet, determined to persist now that he had commenced the attack. There was a little crowd of other men in the room, and the conversation about the shares had been commenced in an under-tone. These two last questions Sir Felix had asked in a whisper, but his countenance showed plainly that he was speaking in anger.

"Then when the deuce will you pay what you owe me?" demanded Sir Felix.
Miles Grendall smoked on in silence.
"Do you know how much you owe me?" continued the baronet, determined to persist. There was a little crowd of other men in the room, and he asked these questions in a whisper, but he was plainly angry.


"Of course I know," said Miles.
"Well?"
"I'm not going to talk about it here."
"Not going to talk about it here?"
"No. This is a public room."
"I am going to talk about it," said Sir Felix, raising his voice.

"Of course I know," said Miles. "I'm not going to talk about it here, in a public room."
"I am going to talk about it," said Sir Felix, raising his voice.


"Will any fellow come up-stairs and play a game of billiards?" said Miles Grendall rising from his chair. Then he walked slowly out of the room, leaving Sir Felix to take what revenge he pleased. For a moment Sir Felix thought that he would expose the transaction to the whole room; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall was a more popular man than himself.

"Will any fellow come upstairs and play a game of billiards?" said Miles Grendall, rising from his chair. Then he walked out slowly. For a moment Sir Felix considered exposing the transaction to the whole room; but he was afraid, thinking that Miles Grendall was a more popular man than himself.


It was Sunday night; but not the less were the gamblers assembled in the card-room at about eleven. Dolly Longestaffe was there, and with him the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall of course, and, I regret to say, a much better man than any of them, Paul Montague. Sir Felix had doubted much as to the propriety of joining the party. What was the use of playing with a man who seemed by general consent to be liberated from any obligation to pay? But then if he did not play with him, where should he find another gambling table? They began with whist, but soon laid that aside and devoted themselves to loo. The least respected man in that confraternity was Grendall, and yet it was in compliance with the persistency of his suggestion that they gave up the nobler game. "Let's stick to whist; I like cutting out," said Grasslough. "It's much more jolly having nothing to do now and then; one can always bet," said Dolly shortly afterwards. "I hate loo," said Sir Felix in answer to a third application.

The gamblers were assembled in the card-room at eleven. Dolly Longestaffe was there, and with him the two lords, and Sir Felix, and Miles Grendall, and, I regret to say, Paul Montague. Sir Felix had doubted whether he should join the party. What was the use of playing with a man who seemed to feel no obligation to pay? But then where should he find another gaming table?
They began with whist, but soon switched to loo at Grendall's repeated suggestions.
"Let's stick to whist," said Grasslough.
"I hate loo," said Sir Felix.


"I like whist best," said Nidderdale, "but I'll play anything anybody likes;--pitch and toss if you please." But Miles Grendall had his way, and loo was the game.

"I like whist best," said Nidderdale, "but I'll play anything anybody likes." Miles Grendall had his way, and loo was the game.


At about two o'clock Grendall was the only winner. The play had not been very high, but nevertheless he had won largely. Whenever a large pool had collected itself he swept it into his garners. The men opposed to him hardly grudged him this stroke of luck. He had hitherto been unlucky; and they were able to pay him with his own paper, which was so valueless that they parted with it without a pang. Even Dolly Longestaffe seemed to have a supply of it. The only man there not so furnished was Montague, and while the sums won were quite small he was allowed to pay with cash. But to Sir Felix it was frightful to see ready money going over to Miles Grendall, as under no circumstances could it be got back from him. "Montague," he said, "just change these for the time. I'll take them back, if you still have them when we've done."

At about two o'clock Grendall was the only winner. His opponents did not grudge him his unusual luck; and they were able to pay him with his own paper, which was so valueless that they parted with it without a pang. The only man without any of his I.O.U.s was Montague, and since the sums won were quite small he paid with cash.
But to Sir Felix it was frightful to see ready money going over to Miles Grendall.
"Montague," he said, "just change these."


And he handed a lot of Miles's paper across the table. The result of course would be that Felix would receive so much real money, and that Miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. To Montague it would make no difference, and he did as he was asked;--or rather was preparing to do so, when Miles interfered. On what principle of justice could Sir Felix come between him and another man? "I don't understand this kind of thing," he said. "When I win from you, Carbury, I'll take my I. O. U.'s, as long as you have any."
"By George, that's kind."
"But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed."

And he handed a lot of Miles's paper across the table, so that he would receive so much real money, and Miles would get back more of his own worthless paper. Paul Montague was about to do as he was asked, when Miles interfered.
"When I win from you, Carbury," he said, "I'll take my I.O.U.'s, as long as you have any. But I won't have them handed about the table to be changed."


"Pay them yourself, then," said Sir Felix, laying a handful down on the table.
"Don't let's have a row," said Lord Nidderdale.
"Carbury is always making a row," said Grasslough.
"Of course he is," said Miles Grendall.
"I don't make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we have such a lot of these things, and as we all know that we don't get cash for them as we want it, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk off with it."
"Who is walking off?" said Miles.
"And why should you be entitled to Montague's money more than any of us?" asked Grasslough.

"Pay them yourself, then," said Sir Felix, laying a handful down on the table.
"Don't let's have a row," said Lord Nidderdale.
"Carbury is always making a row," said Grasslough.
"Of course he is," said Miles Grendall.
"I don't make more row than anybody else; but I do say that as we have such a lot of these things, Grendall shouldn't take money and walk off with it."
"Who is walking off?" said Miles.
"And why should you be entitled to Montague's money?" asked Grasslough.


The matter was debated, and was thus decided. It was not to be allowed that Miles's paper should be negotiated at the table in the manner that Sir Felix had attempted to adopt. But Mr. Grendall pledged his honour that when they broke up the party he would apply any money that he might have won to the redemption of his I. O. U.'s, paying a regular percentage to the holders of them. The decision made Sir Felix very cross. He knew that their condition at six or seven in the morning would not be favourable to such commercial accuracy,--which indeed would require an accountant to effect it; and he felt sure that Miles, if still a winner, would in truth walk off with the ready money.

The matter was debated; and it was decided that Miles's paper should not be negotiated at the table in this way. But Mr. Grendall pledged his honour that when they broke up the party he would give any money that he might have won towards the paying of his I.O.U.'s.
The decision made Sir Felix very cross. He knew that by six or seven in the morning they would need an accountant to work that out; and he felt sure that Miles would simply walk off with the money.


For a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate in his play, tossing his cards about, almost always losing, but losing a minimum, and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendall, and he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair farther and farther away from him, and nearer to Dolly Longestaffe, who was next to him on the other side. This went on for an hour, during which Grendall still won,--and won heavily from Paul Montague. "I never saw a fellow have such a run of luck in my life," said Grasslough. "You've had two trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began!"
"Ever so many hands I haven't played at all," said Miles.
"You've always won when I've played," said Dolly. "I've been looed every time."
"You oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck, when I've lost so much," said Miles, who, since he began, had destroyed paper counters of his own making, supposed to represent considerably above 1,000, and had also,--which was of infinitely greater concern to him,--received an amount of ready money which was quite a godsend to him.

For a considerable time he did not speak, and became very moderate in his play, losing a minimum, and watching the board. He was sitting next to Grendall, and he thought that he observed that his neighbour moved his chair farther and farther away from him. This went on for an hour, during which Grendall still won - and won heavily from Paul Montague.
"I never saw a fellow have such a run of luck," said Grasslough. "You've had two trumps dealt to you every hand almost since we began!"
"You've always won when I've played," said Dolly. "I've been looed every time."
"You oughtn't to begrudge me one run of luck, when I've lost so much," said Miles, who by now had destroyed his own papers to the amount of 1,000, and had also received an amount of ready money which was a godsend to him.


"What's the good of talking about it?" said Nidderdale. "I hate all this row about winning and losing. Let's go on, or go to bed." The idea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on. Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke at all, played very little, and watched Miles Grendall without seeming to watch him. At last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man's sleeve, and remembered at the moment that the winner had owed his success to a continued run of aces. He was tempted to rush at once upon the player, and catch the card on his person. But he feared.

"What's the good of talking about it?" said Nidderdale. "Let's go on, or go to bed." The idea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on.
Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke, and watched Miles Grendall. At last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man's sleeve. He was tempted to rush at once upon him, and catch the card on his person.


Grendall was a big man; and where would he be if there should be no card there? And then, in the scramble, there would certainly be at any rate a doubt. And he knew that the men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Grasslough was Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe would infinitely rather be cheated than suspect any one of their own set of cheating them. He feared both the violence of the man he should accuse, and also the impassive good humour of the others. He let that opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted. Thrice he saw it, till it was wonderful to him that others also should not see it. As often as the deal came round, the man did it. Felix watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man had an ace at least once. It seemed to him that nothing could be easier.

But Grendall was a big man; and what if there should be no card there? And the men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Grasslough was Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe would rather be cheated than suspect one of their own set of cheating them.
So Felix let that opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted. Thrice he saw it, till it was amazing to him that others did not. He watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man had an ace at least once.


At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and went away, leaving the others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper. "There's something the matter with that fellow," said Grasslough.
"There's always something the matter with him, I think," said Miles. "He is so awfully greedy about his money." Miles had become somewhat triumphant in his success.
"The less said about that, Grendall, the better," said Nidderdale. "We have put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with as much as anybody." Miles was cowed at once, and went on dealing without manoeuvring a card on that hand.

At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and went away, leaving the others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper.
"There's something the matter with that fellow," said Grasslough.
"There's always something the matter with him," said Miles. "He is so awfully greedy about his money."
"The less said about that, Grendall, the better," said Nidderdale. "We have all put up with a good deal, you know." Miles was cowed, and dealt without manoeuvring a card on that hand.


Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true,--even about any one else. The man had come to her, and had asked her to be his wife,--and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued! Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her,--had been intelligible, gentle, and affectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed so much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that it would come,--having absolute confidence in his honour and love.

Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. Paul's courtship had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and so long continued! The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her - gentle and affectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had therefore hesitated to declare himself. And yet his love had not been the less true. Poor Hetta had waited, having absolute confidence in his honour and love.

Chapter 68: Miss Melmotte Declares her Purpose


And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heard before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury,--but she knew also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present she could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her.

And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and so foolish, that she could find no possible cause for it. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself.


But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken to give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, and she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in a very few words--"Everything is over!" But it had to be told.
"I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me," she said to her mother at breakfast.
"Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the Melmottes?"

But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had given Marie Melmotte's message to her brother, and she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in a very few words - "Everything is over!" But it had to be told.
"I want to call upon Miss Melmotte," she said to her mother at breakfast.
"Why? I thought you hated the Melmottes?"


"I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have a message to take to her,--from Felix."
"A message--from Felix."
"It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They could never be married now;--could they, mamma?"

"I don't hate her, mamma. I have a message for her, from Felix. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. They could never be married now; could they, mamma?"