That afternoon Hetta trusted herself all alone to the mysteries of the Marylebone underground railway, and emerged with accuracy at King's Cross. She had studied her geography, and she walked from thence to Islington. She knew well the name of the street and the number at which Mrs. Hurtle lived. But when she reached the door she did not at first dare to stand and raise the knocker. She passed on to the end of the silent, vacant street, endeavouring to collect her thoughts, striving to find and to arrange the words with which she would commence her strange petition. And she endeavoured to dictate to herself some defined conduct should the woman be insolent to her. Personally she was not a coward, but she doubted her power of replying to a rough speech. She could at any rate escape. Should the worst come to the worst, the woman would hardly venture to impede her departure. Having gone to the end of the street, she returned with a very quick step and knocked at the door.

That afternoon Hetta trusted herself all alone to the mysteries of the Marylebone underground railway, and emerged with accuracy at King's Cross. She walked from there to Islington. She knew the address of Mrs. Hurtle's lodgings. But when she reached the door she did not at first dare to knock. She walked on to the end of the silent street, striving to collect her thoughts, and trying to plan how she would answer if the woman should be rough and insolent. Should the worst come to the worst, the woman would hardly try to stop her leaving.
Having gone to the end of the street, she returned quickly and knocked at the door.


It was opened almost immediately by Ruby Ruggles, to whom she gave her name.
"Oh laws,--Miss Carbury!" said Ruby, looking up into the stranger's face. "Yes;--sure enough she must be Felix's sister." But Ruby did not dare to ask any question. She had admitted to all around her that Sir Felix should not be her lover any more, and that John Crumb should be allowed to return. But, nevertheless, her heart twittered as she showed Miss Carbury up to the lodger's sitting-room.

It was opened by Ruby Ruggles, to whom she gave her name.
"Oh laws, Miss Carbury!" said Ruby, looking up into the stranger's face. Her heart twittered as she showed Miss Carbury to the lodger's sitting-room.


Though it was midsummer Hetta entered the room with her veil down. She adjusted it as she followed Ruby up the stairs, moved by a sudden fear of her rival's scrutiny. Mrs. Hurtle rose from her chair and came forward to greet her visitor, putting out both her hands to do so. She was dressed with the most scrupulous care,--simply, and in black, without an ornament of any kind, without a ribbon or a chain or a flower. But with some woman's purpose at her heart she had so attired herself as to look her very best. Was it that she thought that she would vindicate to her rival their joint lover's first choice, or that she was minded to teach the English girl that an American woman might have graces of her own? As she came forward she was gentle and soft in her movements, and a pleasant smile played round her mouth. Hetta at the first moment was almost dumbfounded by her beauty,--by that and by her ease and exquisite self-possession. "Miss Carbury," she said with that low, rich voice which in old days had charmed Paul almost as much as her loveliness, "I need not tell you how interested I am in seeing you. May I not ask you to lay aside your veil, so that we may look at each other fairly?"

Hetta put her veil down as she entered the room, moved by a sudden fear of her rival's scrutiny. Mrs. Hurtle came forward to greet her, putting out both her hands. She was dressed with the most scrupulous care - simply, and in black, without any ornament. She had attired herself so as to look her very best. As she came forward she was gentle in her movements, and wore a pleasant smile.
Hetta at first was almost dumbfounded by her beauty and her self-possession. "Miss Carbury," she said in her low, rich voice, "May I not ask you to lay aside your veil, so that we may look at each other fairly?"


Hetta, dumbfounded, not knowing how to speak a word, stood gazing at the woman when she had removed her veil. She had had no personal description of Mrs. Hurtle, but had expected something very different from this! She had thought that the woman would be coarse and big, with fine eyes and a bright colour. As it was they were both of the same complexion, both dark, with hair nearly black, with eyes of the same colour. Hetta thought of all that at the moment,--but acknowledged to herself that she had no pretension to beauty such as that which this woman owned. "And so you have come to see me," said Mrs. Hurtle. "Sit down so that I may look at you. I am glad that you have come to see me, Miss Carbury."
[Illustration: "Sit down so that I may look at you."]
"I am glad at any rate that you are not angry."

Hetta, removing her veil without a word, stood gazing at her. She had expected something very different from this! She had thought that the woman would be coarse and big, with fine eyes and a bright colour. As it was they were both of the same dark complexion, with hair nearly black; but Hetta acknowledged to herself that she had no beauty such as this woman's.
"I am glad that you have come to see me, Miss Carbury."
"I am glad at any rate that you are not angry," said Hetta.


"Why should I be angry? Had the idea been distasteful to me I should have declined. I know not why, but it is a sort of pleasure to me to see you. It is a poor time we women have,--is it not,--in becoming playthings to men? So this Lothario that was once mine, is behaving badly to you also. Is it so? He is no longer mine, and you may ask me freely for aid, if there be any that I can give you. If he were an American I should say that he had behaved badly to me;--but as he is an Englishman perhaps it is different. Now tell me;--what can I do, or what can I say?"
"He told me that you could tell me the truth."

"Why should I be angry? It is a poor time we women have, is it not, in becoming playthings to men? So this Lothario that was once mine, is behaving badly to you also. Is it so? He is no longer mine, and you may ask me freely for aid, if there is any I can give you. Now tell me; what can I do, or say?"
"He told me that you could tell me the truth."


"What truth? I will certainly tell you nothing that is not true. You have quarrelled with him too. Is it not so?"
"Certainly I have quarrelled with him."
"I am not curious;--but perhaps you had better tell me of that. I know him so well that I can guess that he should give offence. He can be full of youthful ardour one day, and cautious as old age itself the next. But I do not suppose that there has been need for such caution with you. What is it, Miss Carbury?"

"What truth? I will certainly tell you nothing that is not true. You have quarrelled with him too?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps you had better tell me of that. I know him so well that I can guess that he should give offence. He can be full of youthful ardour one day, and cautious as old age itself the next. What is it, Miss Carbury?"


Hetta found the telling of her story to be very difficult. "Mrs. Hurtle," she said, "I had never heard your name when he first asked me to be his wife."
"I dare say not. Why should he have told you anything of me?"
"Because,--oh, because--. Surely he ought, if it is true that he had once promised to marry you."
"That certainly is true."
"And you were here, and I knew nothing of it. Of course I should have been very different to him had I known that,--that,--that--"

Hetta found the telling of her story to be very difficult. "Mrs. Hurtle," she said, "I had never heard your name when he first asked me to be his wife."
"I dare say not. Why should he have told you anything of me?"
"Surely he ought, if he had once promised to marry you. I should have been very different to him had I known that - that-"


"That there was such a woman as Winifrid Hurtle interfering with him. Then you heard it by chance, and you were offended. Was it not so?"
"And now he tells me that I have been unjust to him and he bids me ask you. I have not been unjust."

"That there was such a woman as Winifrid Hurtle. Then you heard it by chance, and you were offended. Was it not so?"
"And now he tells me that I have been unjust to him. I have not been unjust."


"I am not so sure of that. Shall I tell you what I think? I think that he has been unjust to me, and that therefore your injustice to him is no more than his due. I cannot plead for him, Miss Carbury. To me he has been the last and worst of a long series of, I think, undeserved misfortune. But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for you to decide."
"Why did he go with you to Lowestoft?"

"I am not so sure of that. Shall I tell you what I think? I think that he has been unjust to me, and that therefore your injustice to him is no more than his due. I cannot plead for him, Miss Carbury. But whether you will avenge my wrongs must be for you to decide."
"Why did he go with you to Lowestoft?"


"Because I asked him,--and because, like many men, he cannot be ill-natured although he can be cruel. He would have given a hand not to have gone, but he could not say me nay. As you have come here, Miss Carbury, you may as well know the truth. He did love me, but he had been talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends long before he had ever seen you. I am almost ashamed to tell you my own part of the story, and yet I know not why I should be ashamed. I followed him here to England--because I loved him. I came after him, as perhaps a woman should not do, because I was true of heart. He had told me that he did not want me;--but I wanted to be wanted, and I hoped that I might lure him back to his troth. I have utterly failed, and I must return to my own country,--I will not say a broken-hearted woman, for I will not admit of such a condition,--but a creature with a broken spirit. He has misused me foully, and I have simply forgiven him; not because I am a Christian, but because I am not strong enough to punish one that I still love.

"Because I asked him - and because, like many men, he cannot be ill-natured although he can be cruel. He would have given his hand not to have gone, but he could not refuse. Miss Carbury, you may as well know the truth. He did love me, but he had been talked out of his love by my enemies and his own friends long before he had ever seen you. I followed him here to England because I loved him. He had told me that he did not want me; but I hoped that I might lure him back to his troth. I have utterly failed, and I must return to my own country with a broken spirit. He has misused me foully, and I have simply forgiven him; not because I am a Christian, but because I am not strong enough to punish one that I still love.


I could not put a dagger into him,--or I would; or a bullet,--or I would. He has reduced me to a nothing by his falseness, and yet I cannot injure him! I, who have sworn to myself that no man should ever lay a finger on me in scorn without feeling my wrath in return, I cannot punish him. But if you choose to do so it is not for me to set you against such an act of justice." Then she paused and looked up to Hetta as though expecting a reply.

He has reduced me to a nothing by his falseness, and yet I cannot injure him! But if you choose to punish him it is not for me to stop you." Then she looked at Hetta as though expecting a reply.


But Hetta had no reply to make. All had been said that she had come to hear. Every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a comfort to her. She had told herself that her visit was to be made in order that she might be justified in her condemnation of her lover. She had believed that it was her intention to arm herself with proof that she had done right in rejecting him. Now she was told that however false her lover might have been to this other woman he had been absolutely true to her. The woman had not spoken kindly of Paul,--had seemed to intend to speak of him with the utmost severity; but she had so spoken as to acquit him of all sin against Hetta. What was it to Hetta that her lover had been false to this American stranger? It did not seem to her to be at all necessary that she should be angry with her lover on that head. Mrs. Hurtle had told her that she herself must decide whether she would take upon herself to avenge her rival's wrongs.

But Hetta had no reply to make. Every word that the woman had spoken had in truth been a comfort to her. She was told that however false her lover might have been to this other woman, he had been absolutely true to her. The woman had not spoken kindly of Paul, but she had acquitted him of all sin against Hetta. If he had been false to this American stranger, it did not seem to her to be necessary that she should be angry with him for that reason.


In saying that Mrs. Hurtle had taught her to feel that there were no other wrongs which she need avenge. It was all done now. If she could only thank the woman for the pleasantness of her demeanour, and then go, she could, when alone, make up her mind as to what she would do next. She had not yet told herself she would submit herself again to Paul Montague. She had only told herself that, within her own breast, she was bound to forgive him. "You have been very kind," she said at last,--speaking only because it was necessary that she should say something.

It was all done now. If she could only thank the woman and then go, she could, when alone, make up her mind as to what she would do next. She had not yet told herself she would submit again to Paul Montague. She had only told herself that, within her heart, she was bound to forgive him.
"You have been very kind," she said at last.


"It is well that there should be some kindness where there has been so much that is unkind. Forgive me, Miss Carbury, if I speak plainly to you. Of course you will go back to him. Of course you will be his wife. You have told me that you love him dearly, as plainly as I have told you the same story of myself. Your coming here would of itself have declared it, even if I did not see your satisfaction at my account of his treachery to me."
"Oh, Mrs. Hurtle, do not say that of me!"


"But it is true, and I do not in the least quarrel with you on that account. He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concerned there is an end of it. You are a girl, whereas I am a woman,--and he likes your youth. I have undergone the cruel roughness of the world, which has not as yet touched you; and therefore you are softer to the touch. I do not know that you are very superior in other attractions; but that has sufficed, and you are the victor. I am strong enough to acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you;--and am weak enough to forgive all his treachery." Hetta was now holding the woman by the hand, and was weeping, she knew not why. "I am so glad to have seen you," continued Mrs. Hurtle, "so that I may know what his wife was like. In a few days I shall return to the States, and then neither of you will ever be troubled further by Winifrid Hurtle. Tell him that if he will come and see me once before I go, I will not be more unkind to him than I can help."

He has preferred you to me, and as far as I am concerned there is an end of it. You are a girl, whereas I am a woman; and he likes your youth. I have undergone the cruel roughness of the world, which has not as yet touched you. I do not know that you are very superior in other attractions; but that has sufficed, and you are the victor. I am strong enough to acknowledge that I have nothing to forgive in you; and am weak enough to forgive his treachery."
Hetta was now holding the woman by the hand, and weeping, she knew not why.
"I am glad to have seen you," continued Mrs. Hurtle, "so that I may know what his wife was like. In a few days I shall return to the States, and then neither of you will ever be troubled further by me. Tell him that if he will come and see me once before I go, I will not be more unkind to him than I can help."


When Hetta did not decline to be the bearer of this message she must have at any rate resolved that she would see Paul Montague again,--and to see him would be to tell him that she was again his own. She now got herself quickly out of the room, absolutely kissing the woman whom she had both dreaded and despised. As soon as she was alone in the street she tried to think of it all. How full of beauty was the face of that American female,--how rich and glorious her voice in spite of a slight taint of the well-known nasal twang;--and above all how powerful and at the same time how easy and how gracious was her manner! That she would be an unfit wife for Paul Montague was certain to Hetta, but that he or any man should have loved her and have been loved by her, and then have been willing to part from her, was wonderful. And yet Paul Montague had preferred herself, Hetta Carbury, to this woman! Paul had certainly done well for his own cause when he had referred the younger lady to the elder.

When Hetta did not decline to bear this message she must have resolved that she would see Paul Montague again. She now got herself quickly out of the room, kissing the woman whom she had dreaded and despised. As soon as she was alone in the street she tried to think of it all. How full of beauty was the American woman's face - how rich and glorious her voice - above all, how powerful and yet how easy and how gracious was her manner! That any man should have loved her and have been loved by her, and then have been willing to part from her, was extraordinary. And yet Paul Montague had preferred her, Hetta Carbury, to this woman! Paul had certainly done well for his own cause when he had referred the younger lady to the elder.


Of her own quarrel of course there must be an end. She had been unjust to the man, and injustice must of course be remedied by repentance and confession. As she walked quickly back to the railway station she brought herself to love her lover more fondly than she had ever done. He had been true to her from the first hour of their acquaintance. What truth higher than that has any woman a right to desire? No doubt she gave to him a virgin heart. No other man had ever touched her lips, or been allowed to press her hand, or to look into her eyes with unrebuked admiration. It was her pride to give herself to the man she loved after this fashion, pure and white as snow on which no foot has trodden. But in taking him, all that she wanted was that he should be true to her now and henceforward. The future must be her own work.

She had been unjust to Paul, and that must be remedied. As she walked quickly back to the railway station she brought herself to love her lover more fondly than she had ever done. He had been true to her from the first hour of their acquaintance. All she wanted was that he should be true to her now. The future must be her own work.


As to the "now," she felt that Mrs. Hurtle had given her sufficient assurance.
She must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. When she re-entered the house she was no longer sullen, no longer anxious to be silent, very willing to be gracious if she might be received with favour,--but quite determined that nothing should shake her purpose. She went at once into her mother's room, having heard from the boy at the door that Lady Carbury had returned.
"Hetta, wherever have you been?" asked Lady Carbury.
"Mamma," she said, "I mean to write to Mr. Montague and tell him that I have been unjust to him."
"Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind," said Lady Carbury, rising from her seat.
"Yes, mamma. I have been unjust, and I must do so."

She must at once let her mother know this change in her mind. When she re-entered the house she was no longer sullen, but quite determined that nothing should shake her purpose. She went at once to her mother's room.
"Hetta, wherever have you been?" asked Lady Carbury.
"Mamma," she said, "I mean to write to Mr. Montague and tell him that I have been unjust to him."
"Hetta, you must do nothing of the kind," said Lady Carbury, rising from her seat.


"It will be asking him to come back to you."
"Yes, mamma:--that is what I mean. I shall tell him that if he will come, I will receive him. I know he will come. Oh, mamma, let us be friends, and I will tell you everything. Why should you grudge me my love?"
"You have sent him back his brooch," said Lady Carbury hoarsely.
"He shall give it me again. Hear what I have done. I have seen that American lady."

"It will be asking him to come back to you."
"Yes, mamma: that is what I mean. If he will come, I will receive him. I know he will come. Oh, mamma, let us be friends. Why should you grudge me my love?"
"You have sent him back his brooch," said Lady Carbury hoarsely.
"He shall give it me again. I have seen that American lady.


"Mrs. Hurtle!"
"Yes;--I have been to her. She is a wonderful woman."
"And she has told you wonderful lies."
"Why should she lie to me? She has told me no lies. She said nothing in his favour."
"I can well believe that. What can any one say in his favour?"

She is a wonderful woman."
"And she has told you wonderful lies."
"She has told me no lies. She said nothing in his favour."
"I can well believe that. What can anyone say in his favour?"


"But she told me that which has assured me that Mr. Montague has never behaved badly to me. I shall write to him at once. If you like I will show you the letter."
"Any letter to him, I will tear," said Lady Carbury, full of anger.
"Mamma, I have told you everything, but in this I must judge for myself." Then Hetta, seeing that her mother would not relent, left the room without further speech, and immediately opened her desk that the letter might be written.

"But what she told me assured me that Mr. Montague has never behaved badly to me. I shall write to him at once. If you like I will show you the letter."
"I will tear it up," said Lady Carbury, full of anger.
"Mamma, I have told you everything, but in this I must judge for myself." Then Hetta, seeing that her mother would not relent, left the room, and went immediately to write her letter.


"Have you been thinking any more about it?" Lord Nidderdale said to the girl as soon as Madame Melmotte had succeeded in leaving them alone together.
"I have thought ever so much more about it," said Marie.
"And what's the result?"
"Oh,--I'll have you."
"That's right," said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa close to her, so that he might put his arm round her waist.
"Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale," she said.
"You might as well call me John."
"Then wait a moment,--John. You think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit."

"Have you been thinking any more about it?" Lord Nidderdale said to Marie as soon as Madame Melmotte had left them alone together.
"I have thought ever so much more about it," said Marie.
"And what's the result?"
"Oh, I'll have you."
"That's right," said Nidderdale, throwing himself on the sofa so that he might put his arm round her waist.
"Wait a moment, Lord Nidderdale," she said.
"Call me John."
"Then wait a moment, John. You think you might as well marry me, though you don't love me a bit."


"That's not true, Marie."
"Yes it is;--it's quite true. And I think just the same,--that I might as well marry you, though I don't love you a bit."
"But you will."
"I don't know. I don't feel like it just at present. You had better know the exact truth, you know. I have told my father that I did not think you'd ever come again, but that if you did I would accept you. But I'm not going to tell any stories about it. You know who I've been in love with."

"That's not true, Marie."
"Yes, it is. And I think just the same - that I might as well marry you, though I don't love you a bit."
"But you will."
"I don't know. I don't feel like it at present. You had better know the exact truth. I have told my father that I would accept you. But you know who I've been in love with."


"But you can't be in love with him now."
"Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come to me, I don't think that I would. He has behaved bad."
"Have I behaved bad?"
"Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared."
"Oh yes,--I have."

"But you can't be in love with him now."
"Why not? I can't marry him. I know that. And if he were to come to me, I don't think that I would. He has behaved badly."
"Have I behaved badly?"
"Not like him. You never did care, and you never said you cared.


"Not at first. You say it now because you think that I shall like it. But it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us to look on it as business."
"How very hard you are, Marie."
"No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury, and so I tell you. I did love him."
"Surely you have found him out now."

You say it now because you think that I shall like it. But it makes no difference now. I don't mind about your arm being there if we are to be married, only it's just as well for both of us to look on it as business."
"How very hard you are, Marie."
"No, I ain't. I wasn't hard to Sir Felix Carbury."
"Surely you have found him out now."


"Yes, I have," said Marie. "He's a poor creature."
"He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets,--most horribly." Marie had not been told of this, and started back from her lover's arms. "You hadn't heard it?"
"Who has thrashed him?"
"I don't want to tell the story against him, but they say he has been cut about in a terrible manner."
"Why should anybody beat him? Did he do anything?"
"There was a young lady in the question, Marie."

"Yes, I have," said Marie. "He's a poor creature."
"He has just been thrashed, you know, in the streets, most horribly."
Marie had not been told of this, and started back from her lover's arms. "Who has thrashed him? Why?"
"There was a young lady in the question, Marie."


"A young lady! What young lady? I don't believe it. But it's nothing to me. I don't care about anything, Lord Nidderdale;--not a bit. I suppose you've made up all that out of your own head."
"Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten, and I believe it was about a young woman. But it signifies nothing to me, and I don't suppose it signifies much to you. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?"

"A young lady? I don't believe it. You've made that up."
"Indeed, no. I believe he was beaten about a young woman. But it signifies nothing to me. Don't you think we might fix a day, Marie?"


"I don't care the least," said Marie. "The longer it's put off the better I shall like it;--that's all."
"Because I'm so detestable?"
"No,--you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; only you don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what one wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody and never to be good friends with anybody. And it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth to give one any interest."
"You couldn't take any interest in me?"
"Not the least."

"I don't care," said Marie. "The longer it's put off the better; that's all."
"Because I'm so detestable?"
"No, you ain't detestable. I think you are a very good fellow; only you don't care for me. But it is detestable not being able to do what one wants. It's detestable having to quarrel with everybody. And it's horribly detestable having nothing on earth to give one any interest."
"You couldn't take any interest in me?"
"Not in the least."


"Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the place where we live?"
"It's a castle, I know."
"Yes;--Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old."
"I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and a new horse every week,--and a new lover. Your father lives at the castle. I don't suppose we are to go and live there too."
"We shall be there sometimes. When shall it be?"

"Suppose you try. Wouldn't you like to know anything about the place where we live?"
"It's a castle, I know."
"Yes; Castle Reekie; ever so many hundred years old."
"I hate old places. I should like a new house, and a new dress, and a new horse every week - and a new lover. Your father lives at the castle. I don't suppose we are to live there too."
"We shall be there sometimes. When shall the wedding be?"


"The year after next."
"Nonsense, Marie."
"To-morrow."
"You wouldn't be ready."
"You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes,--kiss me; of course you may. If I'm to belong to you what does it matter? No;--I won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it will be true. That's more than you can say of yourself,--John."

"The year after next."
"Nonsense, Marie."
"Tomorrow."
"You wouldn't be ready."
"You may manage it all just as you like with papa. Oh, yes, kiss me; of course you may. What does it matter? I won't say that I love you. But if ever I do say it, you may be sure it will be true. That's more than you can say yourself - John."


So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the house thinking of his lady love, as far as he was able to bring his mind to any operation of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with it. As far as the girl herself was concerned, she had, in these latter days, become much more attractive to him than when he had first known her. She certainly was not a fool. And, though he could not tell himself that she was altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of her own which made him think that she would be able to live with ladies. And he did think that, in spite of all she said to the contrary, she was becoming fond of him,--as he certainly had become fond of her. "Have you been up with the ladies?" Melmotte asked him.
"Oh yes."
"And what does Marie say?"

So the interview was over and Nidderdale walked back to the house thinking of his lady love, as far as he was capable of thinking. He was fully determined to go on with the marriage. The girl had lately become much more attractive to him than when he had first known her. She certainly was not a fool. And, though she was not altogether like a lady, still she had a manner of her own. And he did think that, in spite of all she said, she was becoming fond of him - as he certainly had become fond of her.
"Have you been with the ladies?" Melmotte asked him.
"Oh yes."
"And what does Marie say?"


"That you must fix the day."
"We'll have it very soon then;--some time next month. You'll want to get away in August. And to tell the truth so shall I. I never was worked so hard in my life as I've been this summer. The election and that horrid dinner had something to do with it. And I don't mind telling you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind in reference to money. I never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm not quite through it yet."
"I wonder why you gave the dinner then."

"That you must fix the day."
"We'll have it very soon then; some time next month. You'll want to get away in August. To tell the truth so shall I. I never was worked so hard in my life as I've been this summer, with the election and that horrid dinner. And I don't mind telling you that I've had a fearful weight on my mind about money. I never had to find so many large sums in so short a time! And I'm not quite through it yet."
"I wonder why you gave the dinner then."


"My dear boy,"--it was very pleasant to him to call the son of a marquis his dear boy,--"as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. Nothing that I could spend myself would have the slightest effect upon my condition,--one way or the other."
"I wish it could be the same way with me," said Nidderdale.
"If you chose to go into business with me instead of taking Marie's money out, it very soon would be so with you. But the burden is very great. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or whither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. It is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and waves. And then the buffeting which a man gets leaves him only half the man he was. I've had it very hard this time."

"My dear boy, as regards expenditure that was a flea-bite. The burden of money is very great. I never know whence these panics arise, or why they come, or whither they go. But when they do come, they are like a storm at sea. It is only the strong ships that can stand the fury of the winds and waves. I've had it very hard this time."


"I suppose you are getting right now."
"Yes;--I am getting right. I am not in any fear if you mean that. I don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that if you could hurt me by repeating what I say you wouldn't do it."
"Certainly I would not."

"I suppose you are getting right now."
"Yes. I am not in any fear if you mean that. I don't mind telling you everything as it is settled now that you are to be Marie's husband. I know that you are honest, and that you wouldn't hurt me by repeating anything I say."
"Certainly not."


"You see I've no partner,--nobody that is bound to know my affairs. My wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to understand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie. Cohenlupe whom you see so much with me is all very well,--in his way, but I never talk over my affairs with him. He is concerned with me in one or two things,--our American railway for instance, but he has no interest generally in my house. It is all on my own shoulders, and I can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in the matter."
"I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business," said the modest young lord.

"You see my wife is the best woman in the world, but is utterly unable to understand anything about it. Of course I can't talk freely to Marie. Cohenlupe is all very well, but I never talk over my affairs with him. It is all on my own shoulders, and I can tell you the weight is a little heavy. It will be the greatest comfort to me in the world if I can get you to have an interest in the matter."
"I don't suppose I could ever really be any good at business," said the modest young lord.


"You wouldn't come and work, I suppose. I shouldn't expect that. But I should be glad to think that I could tell you how things are going on. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election. For forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it then. The fact was that Alf and they who were supporting him thought that they could carry the election by running me down. They were at it for a fortnight,--perfectly unscrupulous as to what they said or what harm they might do me and others. I thought that very cruel. They couldn't get their man in, but they could and did have the effect of depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million of money. Think what that is!"

"Still I should be glad to tell you how things are going on. Of course you heard all that was said just before the election. For forty-eight hours I had a very bad time of it. The fact was that Alf and his supporters thought that they could carry the election by running me down. They were perfectly unscrupulous. They couldn't get their man in, but they did have the effect of depreciating my property suddenly by nearly half a million. Think what that is!"


"I don't understand how it could be done."


"Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The effect upon shares which I held was instantaneous and tremendous. The Mexican railway were at 117, and they fell from that in two days to something quite nominal,--so that selling was out of the question. Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think what that comes to!" Nidderdale tried to calculate what it did come to, but failed altogether. "That's what I call a blow;--a terrible blow. When a man is concerned as I am with money interests, and concerned largely with them all, he is of course exchanging one property for another every day of his life,--according as the markets go. I don't keep such a sum as that in one concern as an investment.

"Because you don't understand how delicate a thing is credit. They persuaded a lot of men to stay away from that infernal dinner, and consequently it was spread about the town that I was ruined. The effect upon my shares was instantaneous. The Mexican railway fell from 117 to something quite nominal, so that selling was out of the question. Cohenlupe and I between us had about 8,000 of these shares. Think what that comes to!" Nidderdale tried to calculate it, but failed altogether. "That's what I call a blow. When a man is concerned as I am with money interests, he is of course exchanging one property for another every day, according as the markets go. I don't keep such a sum as that in one concern.


Nobody does. Then when a panic comes, don't you see how it hits?"
"Will they never go up again?"
"Oh yes;--perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in the meantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other purposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was so driven that I was obliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be all right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money,--that, you know, is settled."

Nobody does. Then when a panic comes, you see how it hits?"
"Will they never go up again?"
"Oh yes; perhaps higher than ever. But it will take time. And in the meantime I am driven to fall back upon property intended for other purposes. That's the meaning of what you hear about that place down in Sussex which I bought for Marie. I was obliged to raise forty or fifty thousand wherever I could. But that will be all right in a week or two. And as for Marie's money - that, you know, is settled."


He quite succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that he spoke, and he produced also a friendly feeling in the young man's bosom, with something approaching to a desire that he might be of service to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog, Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles, as he had long seen something of the glories, of commerce on an extended scale, and an idea occurred to him that it might be almost more exciting than whist or unlimited loo. He resolved too that whatever the man might tell him should never be divulged. He was on this occasion somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away from the interview with a conviction that the financier was a big man;--one with whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could become attached.

He succeeded in making Nidderdale believe every word that he spoke, and he also produced a friendly feeling in the young man - almost a desire to be of service to his future father-in-law. Hazily, as through a thick fog, Lord Nidderdale thought that he did see something of the troubles of commerce, which seemed almost more exciting than whist or loo. He resolved too that whatever the man might tell him would never be divulged. He was somewhat captivated by Melmotte, and went away convinced that the financier was a big man; one with whom he could sympathise, and to whom in a certain way he could become attached.


And Melmotte himself had derived positive pleasure even from a simulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to him to talk as though he were talking to a young friend whom he trusted. It was impossible that he could really admit any one to a participation in his secrets. It was out of the question that he should ever allow himself to be betrayed into speaking the truth of his own affairs. Of course every word he had said to Nidderdale had been a lie, or intended to corroborate lies. But it had not been only on behalf of the lies that he had talked after this fashion. Even though his friendship with the young man were but a mock friendship,--though it would too probably be turned into bitter enmity before three months had passed by,--still there was a pleasure in it. The Grendalls had left him since the day of the dinner,--Miles having sent him a letter up from the country complaining of severe illness. It was a comfort to him to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much preferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall.

And Melmotte himself had derived pleasure even from a simulated confidence in his son-in-law. It had been pleasant to talk as though he were a young friend whom he trusted. It was out of the question that he should ever speak the truth about his own affairs, and of course every word he had said to Nidderdale had been intended to corroborate lies. Yet it was a comfort to have someone to whom he could speak, and he much preferred Nidderdale to Miles Grendall.


This conversation took place in the smoking-room. When it was over Melmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to the Beargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though with difficulty, and with diminished luxury. Nor could even this be done without rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner had never more been heard of, but the bills which Vossner had left unpaid were held to be good against the club, whereas every note of hand which he had taken from the members was left in the possession of Mr. Flatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden; but still the institution had become so absolutely necessary to its members that it had been reopened under a new management. No one had felt this need more strongly during every hour of the day,--of the day as he counted his days, rising as he did about an hour after noon and going to bed three or four hours after midnight,--than did Dolly Longestaffe. The Beargarden had become so much to him that he had begun to doubt whether life would be even possible without such a resort for his hours. But now the club was again open, and Dolly could have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he was accustomed.

After this conversation Melmotte went into the House, and Nidderdale strolled away to the Beargarden. The Beargarden had been opened again though with diminished luxury, and with rigid laws as to the payment of ready money. Herr Vossner had never more been heard of, but every note of hand which he had taken from the members was left in the possession of Mr. Flatfleece. Of course there was sorrow and trouble at the Beargarden; but the institution had become absolutely necessary to its members - and to no one more than Dolly Longestaffe. Now that the club was again open, Dolly could have his dinner and his bottle of wine with the luxury to which he was accustomed.


But at this time he was almost mad with the sense of injury. Circumstances had held out to him a prospect of almost unlimited ease and indulgence. The arrangement made as to the Pickering estate would pay all his debts, would disembarrass his own property, and would still leave him a comfortable sum in hand. Squercum had told him that if he would stick to his terms he would surely get them. He had stuck to his terms and he had got them. And now the property was sold, and the title-deeds gone,--and he had not received a penny! He did not know whom to be loudest in abusing,--his father, the Bideawhiles, or Mr. Melmotte. And then it was said that he had signed that letter! He was very open in his manner of talking about his misfortune at the club. His father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived.

But at this time Dolly was almost mad with the sense of injury. He had expected that the sale of the Pickering estate would pay all his debts and still leave him a comfortable sum. And now the property was sold, and the title-deeds gone - and he had not received a penny! He did not know whom to be loudest in abusing: his father, the Bideawhiles, or Mr. Melmotte.
He was very open in talking about it at the club. His father was the most obstinate old fool that ever lived.


As for the Bideawhiles,--he would bring an action against them. Squercum had explained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue the world had ever produced. "By George! the world," he said, "must be coming to an end. There's that infernal scoundrel sitting in Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged my name, and--and--by George! he ought to be hung. If any man ever deserved to be hung, that man deserves to be hung." This he spoke openly in the coffee-room of the club, and was still speaking as Nidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables. Dolly had been dining, and had turned round upon his chair so as to face some half-dozen men whom he was addressing.

As for the Bideawhiles, he would bring an action against them. Squercum had explained all that to him. But Melmotte was the biggest rogue the world had ever produced.
"By George!" he said, "there's that infernal scoundrel sitting in Parliament just as if he had not robbed me of my property, and forged my name, by George! He ought to be hung. If any man ever deserved to be hung, that man does." This he said as Nidderdale was taking his seat at one of the tables.


Nidderdale leaving his chair walked up to him very gently. "Dolly," said he, "do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in the room. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find out in a day or two. You don't know Melmotte."
"Mistaken!" Dolly still continued to exclaim with a loud voice. "Am I mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?"
"I don't believe it has been owing very long."
"Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?"
"I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything to do with it."

Nidderdale, leaving his chair, walked up to him very gently.
"Dolly," said he, "do not go on in that way about Melmotte when I am in the room. I have no doubt you are mistaken, and so you'll find in a day or two. You don't know Melmotte."
"Mistaken!" exclaimed Dolly loudly. "Am I mistaken in supposing that I haven't been paid my money?"
"I don't believe it has been owing very long."
"Am I mistaken in supposing that my name has been forged to a letter?"
"I am sure you are mistaken if you think that Melmotte had anything to do with it."


"Squercum says--"
"Never mind Squercum. We all know what are the suspicions of a fellow of that kind."
"I'd believe Squercum a deuced sight sooner than Melmotte."
"Look here, Dolly. I know more probably of Melmotte's affairs than you do or perhaps than anybody else. If it will induce you to remain quiet for a few days and to hold your tongue here,--I'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes you."
"The devil you will."
"I will indeed."

"Squercum says-"
"Never mind Squercum. Look here, Dolly. I probably know more of Melmotte's affairs than you do. If it will induce you to remain quiet for a few days, I'll make myself responsible for the entire sum he owes you."
"The devil you will."
"I will indeed."


Nidderdale was endeavouring to speak so that only Dolly should hear him, and probably nobody else did hear him; but Dolly would not lower his voice. "That's out of the question, you know," he said. "How could I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in my father's room and forged my name to a letter. Everybody knows it. Even my governor knows it now,--and Bideawhile. Before many days are over you'll find that he will be in gaol for forgery."
This was very unpleasant, as every one knew that Nidderdale was either engaged or becoming engaged to Melmotte's daughter. "Since you will speak about it in this public way--" began Nidderdale.

Nidderdale was speaking quietly, but Dolly would not lower his voice.
"That's out of the question," he said. "How could I take your money? The truth is, Nidderdale, the man is a thief, and so you'll find out, sooner or later. He has broken open a drawer in my father's room and forged my name. Everybody knows it. He will soon be in jail for forgery."
This was very unpleasant, as everyone knew that Nidderdale was to become engaged to Melmotte's daughter.
"Since you will speak about it in this public way," began Nidderdale


"I think it ought to be spoken about in a public way," said Dolly.
"I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter except that I am sure Mr. Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father and his lawyer."
"That's true enough," said Dolly; "but it doesn't excuse Melmotte."
"As to the money, there can be no more doubt that it will be paid than that I stand here. What is it?--twenty-five thousand, isn't it?"
"Eighty thousand, the whole."
"Well,--eighty thousand. It's impossible to suppose that such a man as Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds."

, "I deny it as publicly. I can't say anything about the letter except that I am sure Mr. Melmotte did not put your name to it. From what I understand there seems to have been some blunder between your father and his lawyer."
"That's true enough," said Dolly; "but it doesn't excuse Melmotte."
"As to the money, it will certainly be paid. What is it? twenty-five thousand?"
"Eighty thousand, the whole."
"Well - eighty thousand. It's impossible that such a man as Melmotte shouldn't be able to raise eighty thousand pounds."


All this was very unpleasant and made the club less social than it used to be in old days. There was an attempt that night to get up a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country,--a fugitive from the face of Melmotte, and Carbury was in hiding at home with his countenance from top to bottom supported by plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the club. At the present moment he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned thither by Mr. Ramsbottom. "By George," said Dolly, as he filled another pipe and ordered more brandy and water, "I think everything is going to come to an end. I do indeed. I never heard of such a thing before as a man being done in this way. And then Vossner has gone off, and it seems everybody is to pay just what he says they owed him. And now one can't even get up a game of cards. I feel as though there were no good in hoping that things would ever come right again."

All this unpleasantness made the club less social than it used to be. There was an attempt to get up a game of cards; but Nidderdale would not play because he was offended with Dolly Longestaffe; and Miles Grendall was away in the country, and Carbury was in hiding at home with his face covered in plasters, and Montague in these days never went to the club. At present he was again in Liverpool, having been summoned there by Mr. Ramsbottom.
"By George," said Dolly, as he ordered more brandy and water, "I think everything is going to come to an end. I do indeed. And now one can't even get up a game of cards. I feel as though things might never come right again."


The opinion of the club was a good deal divided as to the matter in dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admitted by some to be "very fishy." If Melmotte were so great a man why didn't he pay the money, and why should he have mortgaged the property before it was really his own? But the majority of the men thought that Dolly was wrong. As to the signature of the letter, Dolly was a man who would naturally be quite unable to say what he had and what he had not signed. And then, even into the Beargarden there had filtered, through the outer world, a feeling that people were not now bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years since. No doubt it suited Melmotte to make use of the money, and therefore,--as he had succeeded in getting the property into his hands,--he did make use of it. But it would be forthcoming sooner or later! In this way of looking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. The world at large, in spite of the terrible falling-off at the Emperor of China's dinner, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and of the undoubted fact that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that Melmotte would "pull through."

The opinion of the club was divided as to the matter in dispute between Lord Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe. It was admitted by some to be "very fishy." If Melmotte were so great a man why didn't he pay the money? But most men thought that Dolly did not know what he had signed. And there was a general feeling that people were not bound to be so punctilious in the paying of money as they were a few years ago. No doubt Melmotte would produce the money sooner or later.
In this way of looking at the matter the Beargarden followed the world at large. The world, in spite of all the rumours, in spite of the ruinous depreciation of the Mexican Railway stock, and the undoubted fact that Dolly Longestaffe had not received his money, was inclined to think that Melmotte would "pull through."


The next night but one after that of the gambling transaction at the Beargarden, a great ball was given in Grosvenor Square. It was a ball on a scale so magnificent that it had been talked about ever since Parliament met, now about a fortnight since. Some people had expressed an opinion that such a ball as this was intended to be could not be given successfully in February. Others declared that the money which was to be spent,--an amount which would make this affair something quite new in the annals of ball-giving,--would give the thing such a character that it would certainly be successful. And much more than money had been expended. Almost incredible efforts had been made to obtain the co-operation of great people, and these efforts had at last been grandly successful. The Duchess of Stevenage had come up from Castle Albury herself to be present at it and to bring her daughters, though it has never been her Grace's wont to be in London at this inclement season. No doubt the persuasion used with the Duchess had been very strong. Her brother, Lord Alfred Grendall, was known to be in great difficulties, which,--so people said,--had been considerably modified by opportune pecuniary assistance. And then it was certain that one of the young Grendalls, Lord Alfred's second son, had been appointed to some mercantile position, for which he received a salary which his most intimate friends thought that he was hardly qualified to earn.

Two nights after that, a great ball was given in Grosvenor Square. It was a ball on a scale so magnificent that it had been talked about for a fortnight. Some people declared that February was the wrong time for such a ball; others said that the huge amount of money spent would certainly make it a success.
And much more than money had been expended. Almost incredible efforts had been made to obtain the co-operation of great people. The Duchess of Stevenage had come up from Castle Albury to attend it with her daughters, though it had never been her Grace's habit to be in London in winter. But then her brother, Lord Alfred Grendall, was known to be in great difficulties, which - people said - had been considerably modified by financial help. And one of the young Grendalls, Lord Alfred's second son, had been appointed to some mercantile position in the City, at Abchurch Lane, for which he received a salary which his friends thought he was hardly qualified to earn.


It was certainly a fact that he went to Abchurch Lane, in the City, four or five days a week, and that he did not occupy his time in so unaccustomed a manner for nothing. Where the Duchess of Stevenage went all the world would go. And it became known at the last moment, that is to say only the day before the party, that a prince of the blood royal was to be there. How this had been achieved nobody quite understood; but there were rumours that a certain lady's jewels had been rescued from the pawnbroker's. Everything was done on the same scale. The Prime Minister had indeed declined to allow his name to appear on the list; but one Cabinet Minister and two or three under-secretaries had agreed to come because it was felt that the giver of the ball might before long be the master of considerable parliamentary interest. It was believed that he had an eye to politics, and it is always wise to have great wealth on one's own side. There had at one time been much solicitude about the ball. Many anxious thoughts had been given. When great attempts fail, the failure is disastrous, and may be ruinous.

Where the Duchess of Stevenage went, all the world would go. And it became known the day before the party that a royal prince was to be there. How this had been achieved nobody quite understood; but there were rumours that a certain lady's jewels had been rescued from the pawnbroker's. The Prime Minister had declined to accept; but one Cabinet Minister and two or three under-secretaries had agreed to come, because it was felt that the giver of the ball might before long enter politics: and it is always wise to have great wealth on one's own side.
There had been much anxiety about the ball.


But this ball had now been put beyond the chance of failure.
The giver of the ball was Augustus Melmotte, Esq., the father of the girl whom Sir Felix Carbury desired to marry, and the husband of the lady who was said to have been a Bohemian Jewess. It was thus that the gentleman chose to have himself designated, though within the last two years he had arrived in London from Paris, and had at first been known as M. Melmotte. But he had declared of himself that he had been born in England, and that he was an Englishman. He admitted that his wife was a foreigner,--an admission that was necessary as she spoke very little English. Melmotte himself spoke his "native" language fluently, but with an accent which betrayed at least a long expatriation. Miss Melmotte,--who a very short time since had been known as Mademoiselle Marie,--spoke English well, but as a foreigner. In regard to her it was acknowledged that she had been born out of England,--some said in New York; but Madame Melmotte, who must have known, had declared that the great event had taken place in Paris.

But it was now beyond the chance of failure.
The giver of the ball was Augustus Melmotte, the father of the girl whom Sir Felix Carbury desired to marry, and the husband of the lady who was said to have been a Bohemian Jewess. Two years ago, when he arrived in London from Paris, he was known as Monsieur Melmotte. But he declared that he had been born in England. He admitted that his wife was a foreigner; indeed, she spoke very little English. Melmotte spoke it fluently, but with an accent. So did Miss Melmotte: some said she had been born in New York, but Madame Melmotte declared that the great event had taken place in Paris.


It was at any rate an established fact that Mr. Melmotte had made his wealth in France. He no doubt had had enormous dealings in other countries, as to which stories were told which must surely have been exaggerated. It was said that he had made a railway across Russia, that he provisioned the Southern army in the American civil war, that he had supplied Austria with arms, and had at one time bought up all the iron in England. He could make or mar any company by buying or selling stock, and could make money dear or cheap as he pleased. All this was said of him in his praise,--but it was also said that he was regarded in Paris as the most gigantic swindler that had ever lived; that he had made that City too hot to hold him; that he had endeavoured to establish himself in Vienna, but had been warned away by the police; and that he had at length found that British freedom would alone allow him to enjoy, without persecution, the fruits of his industry. He was now established privately in Grosvenor Square and officially in Abchurch Lane; and it was known to all the world that a Royal Prince, a Cabinet Minister, and the very cream of duchesses were going to his wife's ball. All this had been done within twelve months.

It was at any rate an established fact that Mr. Melmotte had made his wealth in France. He no doubt had had enormous dealings in other countries, even if the stories were exaggerated. It was said that he had made a railway across Russia, that he provisioned the Southern army in the American civil war, that he had supplied Austria with arms, and had at one time bought up all the iron in England. He could make or mar any company by buying or selling stock, and could make money dear or cheap as he pleased.
However, it was also said that he was regarded in Paris as the most gigantic swindler that had ever lived; that he had made that city too hot to hold him; that he had tried to establish himself in Vienna, but had been warned away by the police; and that he had at length found that Britain alone would allow him to enjoy, without persecution, the fruits of his industry. His private house was in Grosvenor Square and his house of business in Abchurch Lane.


There was but one child in the family, one heiress for all this wealth. Melmotte himself was a large man, with bushy whiskers and rough thick hair, with heavy eyebrows, and a wonderful look of power about his mouth and chin. This was so strong as to redeem his face from vulgarity; but the countenance and appearance of the man were on the whole unpleasant, and, I may say, untrustworthy. He looked as though he were purse-proud and a bully. She was fat and fair,--unlike in colour to our traditional Jewesses; but she had the Jewish nose and the Jewish contraction of the eyes. There was certainly very little in Madame Melmotte to recommend her, unless it was a readiness to spend money on any object that might be suggested to her by her new acquaintances. It sometimes seemed that she had a commission from her husband to give away presents to any who would accept them. The world had received the man as Augustus Melmotte, Esq. The world so addressed him on the very numerous letters which reached him, and so inscribed him among the directors of three dozen companies to which he belonged. But his wife was still Madame Melmotte.

There was only one child in the family, one heiress for all this wealth. Melmotte himself was a large man, with bushy whiskers and thick hair, heavy eyebrows, and a powerful-looking mouth and chin. His appearance was strong, but on the whole unpleasant and untrustworthy. He looked as though he were a bully. His wife was fat and fair, with a Jewish nose. She was very ready to spend money and give away presents to any who would accept them. She was still Madame Melmotte, not Mrs. Melmotte.


The daughter had been allowed to take her rank with an English title. She was now Miss Melmotte on all occasions.

However, the daughter, once Mademoiselle, was now Miss Melmotte on all occasions.


Marie Melmotte had been accurately described by Felix Carbury to his mother. She was not beautiful, she was not clever, and she was not a saint. But then neither was she plain, nor stupid, nor, especially, a sinner. She was a little thing, hardly over twenty years of age, very unlike her father or mother, having no trace of the Jewess in her countenance, who seemed to be overwhelmed by the sense of her own position. With such people as the Melmottes things go fast, and it was very well known that Miss Melmotte had already had one lover who had been nearly accepted. The affair, however, had gone off. In this "going off" no one imputed to the young lady blame or even misfortune. It was not supposed that she had either jilted or been jilted. As in royal espousals interests of State regulate their expedience with an acknowledged absence, with even a proclaimed impossibility, of personal predilections, so in this case was money allowed to have the same weight. Such a marriage would or would not be sanctioned in accordance with great pecuniary arrangements.

Felix Carbury had accurately described Marie Melmotte to his mother. She was not beautiful, nor clever, nor a saint. But then neither was she plain, stupid, or a sinner. She was a little thing, hardly over twenty years of age, and seemed to be overwhelmed by the sense of her own position.
It was well known that Miss Melmotte had already had one lover who had been nearly accepted. The affair, however, had gone off, with no blame to the lady. As royal marriages are governed by the interests of State, so in this case money had the same weight.


The young Lord Nidderdale, the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie, had offered to take the girl and make her Marchioness in the process of time for half a million down. Melmotte had not objected to the sum,--so it was said,--but had proposed to tie it up. Nidderdale had desired to have it free in his own grasp, and would not move on any other terms. Melmotte had been anxious to secure the Marquis,--very anxious to secure the Marchioness; for at that time terms had not been made with the Duchess; but at last he had lost his temper, and had asked his lordship's lawyer whether it was likely that he would entrust such a sum of money to such a man. "You are willing to trust your only child to him," said the lawyer. Melmotte scowled at the man for a few seconds from under his bushy eyebrows; then told him that his answer had nothing in it, and marched out of the room. So that affair was over. I doubt whether Lord Nidderdale had ever said a word of love to Marie Melmotte,--or whether the poor girl had expected it. Her destiny had no doubt been explained to her.

The young Lord Nidderdale, the eldest son of the Marquis of Auld Reekie, had offered to marry the girl and make her Marchioness in exchange for half a million pounds. Melmotte had not objected to the sum - so it was said - but had proposed to tie it up. Nidderdale had desired to have it free in his own grasp. Although Melmotte had been anxious to secure the title for his daughter, he had lost his temper, and had asked his lordship's lawyer whether it was likely that he would entrust so much money to such a man.
"You are willing to trust your only child to him," said the lawyer. Melmotte scowled, and marched out of the room. So that affair was over. I doubt whether Lord Nidderdale had ever said a word of love to Marie Melmotte - or whether the poor girl had expected it. Her destiny had no doubt been explained to her.


Others had tried and had broken down somewhat in the same fashion. Each had treated the girl as an encumbrance he was to undertake,--at a very great price. But as affairs prospered with the Melmottes, as princes and duchesses were obtained by other means,--costly no doubt, but not so ruinously costly,--the immediate disposition of Marie became less necessary, and Melmotte reduced his offers. The girl herself, too, began to have an opinion. It was said that she had absolutely rejected Lord Grasslough, whose father indeed was in a state of bankruptcy, who had no income of his own, who was ugly, vicious, ill-tempered, and without any power of recommending himself to a girl. She had had experience since Lord Nidderdale, with a half laugh, had told her that he might just as well take her for his wife, and was now tempted from time to time to contemplate her own happiness and her own condition. People around were beginning to say that if Sir Felix Carbury managed his affairs well he might be the happy man.

Others had tried, each treating the girl as an encumbrance he was to undertake at a very great price. But as affairs prospered with the Melmottes, as princes and duchesses were obtained with lesser cost, a title for Marie became less necessary, and Melmotte reduced his offers.
The girl herself, too, began to have an opinion. It was said that she had absolutely rejected Lord Grasslough, who indeed was penniless, ugly, vicious, ill-tempered, and without any power of recommending himself to a girl. She had gained experience, and she was now tempted to contemplate her own happiness. People were beginning to say that Sir Felix Carbury might be the happy man.


There was considerable doubt whether Marie was the daughter of that Jewish-looking woman. Enquiries had been made, but not successfully, as to the date of the Melmotte marriage. There was an idea abroad that Melmotte had got his first money with his wife, and had gotten it not very long ago. Then other people said that Marie was not his daughter at all. Altogether the mystery was rather pleasant as the money was certain. Of the certainty of the money in daily use there could be no doubt. There was the house. There was the furniture. There were the carriages, the horses, the servants with the livery coats and powdered heads, and the servants with the black coats and unpowdered heads. There were the gems, and the presents, and all the nice things that money can buy.

There was considerable doubt whether Marie was the daughter of Madame Melmotte. Some even said that Marie was not Mr. Melmotte's daughter. However, of the Melmotte money there could be no doubt. There was the house. There was the furniture. There were the carriages, the horses, the servants with the livery coats and powdered heads. There were the gems and presents, and the


There were two dinner parties every day, one at two o'clock called lunch, and the other at eight. The tradesmen had learned enough to be quite free of doubt, and in the City Mr. Melmotte's name was worth any money,--though his character was perhaps worth but little.

daily dinner parties. The tradesmen were quite free of doubt, and in the City Mr. Melmotte's name was worth any money - though his character was perhaps worth little.


The large house on the south side of Grosvenor Square was all ablaze by ten o'clock. The broad verandah had been turned into a conservatory, had been covered in with boards contrived to look like trellis-work, was heated with hot air and filled with exotics at some fabulous price. A covered way had been made from the door, down across the pathway, to the road, and the police had, I fear, been bribed to frighten foot passengers into a belief that they were bound to go round. The house had been so arranged that it was impossible to know where you were, when once in it. The hall was a paradise. The staircase was fairyland. The lobbies were grottoes rich with ferns. Walls had been knocked away and arches had been constructed. The leads behind had been supported and walled in, and covered and carpeted. The ball had possession of the ground floor and first floor, and the house seemed to be endless.

The large house in Grosvenor Square was all ablaze by ten o'clock. The broad veranda had been turned into a conservatory, covered with boards contrived to look like trellis-work, heated with hot air and filled with exotic plants at some fabulous price. A covered way had been made from the road to the door; once inside the house, the hall was a paradise. The staircase was fairyland. The lobbies were grottoes rich with ferns. Walls had been knocked away and arches constructed; floors had been carpeted. The ball took up the ground floor and first floor, and the house seemed to be endless.


"It's to cost sixty thousand pounds," said the Marchioness of Auld Reekie to her old friend the Countess of Mid-Lothian. The Marchioness had come in spite of her son's misfortune when she heard that the Duchess of Stevenage was to be there. "And worse spent money never was wasted," said the Countess. "By all accounts it was as badly come by," said the Marchioness. Then the two old noblewomen, one after the other, made graciously flattering speeches to the much-worn Bohemian Jewess, who was standing in fairyland to receive her guests, almost fainting under the greatness of the occasion.

"It's costing sixty thousand pounds," said the Marchioness of Auld Reekie to her old friend the Countess of Mid-Lothian.
"And money was never worse spent," said the Countess.
"By all accounts it was as badly come by," said the Marchioness. Then the two old noblewomen made graciously flattering speeches to the Jewess, who was standing in fairyland to receive her guests, almost fainting under the greatness of the occasion.


The three saloons on the first or drawing-room floor had been prepared for dancing, and here Marie was stationed. The Duchess had however undertaken to see that somebody should set the dancing going, and she had commissioned her nephew Miles Grendall, the young gentleman who now frequented the City, to give directions to the band and to make himself generally useful. Indeed there had sprung up a considerable intimacy between the Grendall family,--that is Lord Alfred's branch of the Grendalls,--and the Melmottes; which was as it should be, as each could give much and each receive much. It was known that Lord Alfred had not a shilling; but his brother was a duke and his sister was a duchess, and for the last thirty years there had been one continual anxiety for poor dear Alfred, who had tumbled into an unfortunate marriage without a shilling, had spent his own moderate patrimony, had three sons and three daughters, and had lived now for a very long time entirely on the unwilling contributions of his noble relatives. Melmotte could support the whole family in affluence without feeling the burden;--and why should he not? There had once been an idea that Miles should attempt to win the heiress, but it had soon been found expedient to abandon it. Miles had no title, no position of his own, and was hardly big enough for the place. It was in all respects better that the waters of the fountain should be allowed to irrigate mildly the whole Grendall family;--and so Miles went into the city.

The three saloons had been prepared for dancing, and here Marie was stationed. The Duchess of Stevenage had undertaken to see that somebody should set the dancing going, and she had commissioned her nephew Miles Grendall, the young gentleman who now worked in the City, to make himself useful.
There had sprung up an intimacy between the Grendall family and the Melmottes, as each could give much and each receive much. Lord Alfred Grendall had not a shilling; but his brother was a duke and his sister was a duchess, and poor Alfred, who had tumbled into an unfortunate marriage, and had three sons and three daughters, had lived now for a very long time entirely on the unwilling contributions of his noble relatives. But Melmotte could support the whole family in affluence without feeling the burden. There had once been an idea that Miles should attempt to win the heiress, but it had soon been abandoned, since Miles had no title or position.


The ball was opened by a quadrille in which Lord Buntingford, the eldest son of the Duchess, stood up with Marie. Various arrangements had been made, and this among them. We may say that it had been part of a bargain. Lord Buntingford had objected mildly, being a young man devoted to business, fond of his own order, rather shy, and not given to dancing. But he had allowed his mother to prevail. "Of course they are vulgar," the Duchess had said,--"so much so as to be no longer distasteful because of the absurdity of the thing. I dare say he hasn't been very honest. When men make so much money, I don't know how they can have been honest. Of course it's done for a purpose. It's all very well saying that it isn't right, but what are we to do about Alfred's children?

The ball was opened by a quadrille in which Lord Buntingford, the eldest son of the Duchess, stood up with Marie. This had been part of a bargain, although Lord Buntingford had objected mildly.
But his mother had said, "Of course they are vulgar. And I dare say he hasn't been very honest. When men make so much money, I don't know how they can have been honest. But what are we to do about Alfred's children?


Miles is to have 500 a-year. And then he is always about the house. And between you and me they have got up those bills of Alfred's, and have said they can lie in their safe till it suits your uncle to pay them."
"They will lie there a long time," said Lord Buntingford.
"Of course they expect something in return; do dance with the girl once." Lord Buntingford disapproved--mildly, and did as his mother asked him.

And his bills? Do dance with the girl once." Lord Buntingford did as his mother asked him.


The affair went off very well. There were three or four card-tables in one of the lower rooms, and at one of them sat Lord Alfred Grendall and Mr. Melmotte, with two or three other players, cutting in and out at the end of each rubber. Playing whist was Lord Alfred's only accomplishment, and almost the only occupation of his life. He began it daily at his club at three o'clock, and continued playing till two in the morning with an interval of a couple of hours for his dinner. This he did during ten months of the year, and during the other two he frequented some watering-place at which whist prevailed. He did not gamble, never playing for more than the club stakes and bets. He gave to the matter his whole mind, and must have excelled those who were generally opposed to him. But so obdurate was fortune to Lord Alfred that he could not make money even of whist. Melmotte was very anxious to get into Lord Alfred's club,--The Peripatetics. It was pleasant to see the grace with which he lost his money, and the sweet intimacy with which he called his lordship Alfred.

The ball went very well. There were three or four card-tables in one of the rooms, and at one of them sat Lord Alfred Grendall and Mr. Melmotte, with two or three other players. Playing whist was Lord Alfred's only accomplishment, and almost the only occupation of his life. He played it daily at his club for ten months of the year, and during the other two he frequented some watering-place at which whist prevailed. He did not gamble, never playing for more than the club stakes, but he never made any money.
Melmotte was very anxious to get into Lord Alfred's club, The Peripatetics. It was pleasant to see the grace with which he lost his money, and the sweet intimacy with which he called his lordship Alfred.


Lord Alfred had a remnant of feeling left, and would have liked to kick him. Though Melmotte was by far the bigger man, and was also the younger, Lord Alfred would not have lacked the pluck to kick him. Lord Alfred, in spite of his habitual idleness and vapid uselessness, had still left about him a dash of vigour, and sometimes thought that he would kick Melmotte and have done with it. But there were his poor boys, and those bills in Melmotte's safe. And then Melmotte lost his points so regularly, and paid his bets with such absolute good humour! "Come and have a glass of champagne, Alfred," Melmotte said, as the two cut out together. Lord Alfred liked champagne, and followed his host; but as he went he almost made up his mind that on some future day he would kick the man.

Though Melmotte was by far the bigger man, Lord Alfred would have liked to kick him. Lord Alfred, in spite of his habitual idleness and uselessness, had still a dash of vigour, and sometimes thought that he would kick Melmotte and have done with it. But there were his poor boys, and those bills in Melmotte's safe. And Melmotte paid his bets with such absolute good humour!
"Come and have a glass of champagne, Alfred," Melmotte said. Lord Alfred liked champagne, and followed his host; but he almost made up his mind that on some future day he would kick the man.


Late in the evening Marie Melmotte was waltzing with Felix Carbury, and Henrietta Carbury was then standing by talking to one Mr. Paul Montague. Lady Carbury was also there. She was not well inclined either to balls or to such people as the Melmottes; nor was Henrietta. But Felix had suggested that, bearing in mind his prospects as to the heiress, they had better accept the invitation which he would cause to have sent to them. They did so; and then Paul Montague also got a card, not altogether to Lady Carbury's satisfaction. Lady Carbury was very gracious to Madame Melmotte for two minutes, and then slid into a chair expecting nothing but misery for the evening. She, however, was a woman who could do her duty and endure without complaint.
"It is the first great ball I ever was at in London," said Hetta Carbury to Paul Montague.
"And how do you like it?"

Late in the evening Marie Melmotte was waltzing with Felix Carbury, and Henrietta Carbury was standing by, talking to a Mr. Paul Montague. Lady Carbury was also there. She did not care for balls, nor for the Melmottes; but Felix had suggested that they had better accept the invitation. Lady Carbury was very gracious to Madame Melmotte for two minutes, and then slid into a chair expecting nothing but misery for the evening. However, she was a woman who could do her duty and endure without complaint.
"It is the first great ball I ever was at in London," said Hetta Carbury to Paul Montague.
"And how do you like it?"


"Not at all. How should I like it? I know nobody here. I don't understand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing."
"Just that; I suppose when they are used to it they get introduced backwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast as they like. If you would wish to dance why won't you dance with me?"
"I have danced with you,--twice already."
"Is there any law against dancing three times?"

"Not at all. I know nobody here. I don't understand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing."
"If you wish to dance why won't you dance with me?"
"I have danced with you twice already."
"Is there any law against dancing three times?"


"But I don't especially want to dance," said Henrietta. "I think I'll go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her." Just at this moment, however, Lady Carbury was not in that wretched condition, as an unexpected friend had come to her relief.

"But I don't especially want to dance," said Henrietta. "I think I'll go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her." Just at this moment, however, an unexpected friend had come to Lady Carbury's relief.


Sir Felix and Marie Melmotte had been spinning round and round throughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the music and the movement. To give Felix Carbury what little praise might be his due, it is necessary to say that he did not lack physical activity. He would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly, with an animation that made him happy for the moment. It was an affair not of thought or calculation, but of physical organisation. And Marie Melmotte had been thoroughly happy. She loved dancing with all her heart if she could only dance in a manner pleasant to herself. She had been warned especially as to some men,--that she should not dance with them. She had been almost thrown into Lord Nidderdale's arms, and had been prepared to take him at her father's bidding. But she had never had the slightest pleasure in his society, and had only not been wretched because she had not as yet recognised that she had an identity of her own in the disposition of which she herself should have a voice. She certainly had never cared to dance with Lord Nidderdale.

Sir Felix and Marie Melmotte had been spinning round and round throughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the music and the movement. To give Felix Carbury what little praise might be his due, he did not lack physical activity. He would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly, with an animation that made him happy for the moment.
And Marie Melmotte had been thoroughly happy. She loved dancing, although she had been warned that there were some men she should not dance with. She had been prepared to take Lord Nidderdale at her father's bidding, but she had never had any pleasure in his society. She certainly had never cared to dance with him.


Lord Grasslough she had absolutely hated, though at first she had hardly dared to say so. One or two others had been obnoxious to her in different ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on, out of her way. There was no one at the present moment whom she had been commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made. But she did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury.


It was not only that the man was handsome but that he had a power of changing the expression of his countenance, a play of face, which belied altogether his real disposition. He could seem to be hearty and true till the moment came in which he had really to expose his heart,--or to try to expose it. Then he failed, knowing nothing about it. But in the approaches to intimacy with a girl he could be very successful. He had already nearly got beyond this with Marie Melmotte; but Marie was by no means quick in discovering his deficiencies. To her he had seemed like a god. If she might be allowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and to give herself to him, she thought that she would be contented.
"How well you dance," said Sir Felix, as soon as he had breath for speaking.

Not only was the man handsome, but he had an expressive play of face which belied his real disposition. He could seem to be hearty and true till the moment came to expose his heart - or to try to expose it. Then he failed. But in the approaches to intimacy with a girl he could be very successful; and Marie was slow to discover his deficiencies. To her he had seemed like a god. If she might be allowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and to give herself to him, she thought that she would be contented.
"How well you dance," said Sir Felix.


"Do I?" She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a little prettiness to her speech. "I was never told so. But nobody ever told me anything about myself."
"I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the beginning to the end."
"Ah,--but you don't know."
"I would find out. I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tell you what you would like best in all the world."
"What is that?"

"Do I?" She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a little prettiness to her speech. "I was never told so. But nobody ever told me anything about myself."
"I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the beginning to the end."
"Ah - but you don't know."
"I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tell you what you would like best in all the world."
"What is that?"


"Somebody that liked you best in all the world."
"Ah,--yes; if one knew who?"
"How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?"
"That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked me better than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she said so. I should have to find it out."
"And if a gentleman told you so?"
"I shouldn't believe him a bit, and I should not care to find out. But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself."
"So should I."

"Somebody that liked you best in all the world."
"Ah, yes; if one knew who?"
"How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?"
"That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked me better than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she said so. I should have to find it out."
"And if a gentleman told you so?"
"I shouldn't believe him, and I should not care to find out. But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself."
"So should I."


"Have you no particular friend?"
"I mean a girl whom I could love,--oh, ten times better than myself."
"Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix," said Miss Melmotte.
"I wonder whether that will come to anything?" said Paul Montague to Miss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been watching the approaches to love-making which the baronet was opening.
"You mean Felix and Miss Melmotte. I hate to think of such things, Mr. Montague."
"It would be a magnificent chance for him."

"Have you no particular friend?"
"I mean a girl whom I could love - oh, ten times better than myself."
"Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix," said Miss Melmotte.
"I wonder whether that will come to anything?" said Paul Montague to Miss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been watching this. "It would be a magnificent chance for him."


"To marry a girl, the daughter of vulgar people, just because she will have a great deal of money? He can't care for her really,--because she is rich."
"But he wants money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is no other condition of things under which Felix can face the world, but by being the husband of an heiress."
"What a dreadful thing to say!"
"But isn't it true? He has beggared himself."
"Oh, Mr. Montague."
"And he will beggar you and your mother."
"I don't care about myself."

"To marry the daughter of vulgar people, just because she will have money?" said Hetta. "He can't care for her really."
"But he needs money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is no other solution for Felix than to marry an heiress."
"What a dreadful thing to say!"
"But isn't it true? He has beggared himself. And he will beggar you and your mother."
"I don't care about myself."


"Others do though." As he said this he did not look at her, but spoke through his teeth, as if he were angry both with himself and her.
"I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix."
"I don't speak harshly of him, Miss Carbury. I haven't said that it was his own fault. He seems to be one of those who have been born to spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, I think it would be a good thing if he were to marry her. If Felix had 20,000 a year, everybody would think him the finest fellow in the world." In saying this, however, Mr. Paul Montague showed himself unfit to gauge the opinion of the world. Whether Sir Felix be rich or poor, the world, evil-hearted as it is, will never think him a fine fellow.

"Others do, though." Paul spoke through his teeth, as if he were angry.
"I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix."
"I don't speak harshly of him, Miss Carbury. I haven't said that it was his own fault. He seems to be one of those who have been born to spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, I think it would be a good thing if he were to marry her."


Lady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplaining solitude under a bust, when she was delighted by the appearance of Mr. Ferdinand Alf. "You here?" she said.
"Why not? Melmotte and I are brother adventurers."
"I should have thought you would find so little here to amuse you."
"I have found you; and, in addition to that, duchesses and their daughters without number. They expect Prince George!"
"Do they?"

Lady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplaining solitude, when she was delighted by the appearance of Mr. Ferdinand Alf.
"You here?" she said.
"Why not? Melmotte and I are brother adventurers."
"I should have thought you would find little here to amuse you."
"I have found you; and, in addition, duchesses and their daughters without number. They expect Prince George!


"And Legge Wilson from the India Office is here already. I spoke to him in some jewelled bower as I made my way here, not five minutes since. It's quite a success. Don't you think it very nice, Lady Carbury?"
"I don't know whether you are joking or in earnest."
"I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all they want in return is a little countenance."
"Do you mean to give it then?"
"I am giving it them."

It's quite a success. Don't you think it very nice, Lady Carbury?"
"I don't know whether you are joking or not."
"I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all they want in return is a little attention."


"Ah;--but the countenance of the 'Evening Pulpit.' Do you mean to give them that?"
"Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names and to record ladies' dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our host himself that he should be kept out of the newspapers."
"Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr. Alf?" said the lady after a pause.

"Ah; the attention of the Evening Pulpit. Do you mean to give them that?"
"Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names and ladies' dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our host that he should be kept out of the newspapers."
"Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr. Alf?" said the lady after a pause.


"We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here's the Prince. What will they do with him now they've caught him! Oh, they're going to make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!"
"Poor Prince!" said Lady Carbury.
"Not at all. She's a nice little girl enough, and he'll have nothing to trouble him. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?"

"We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here's the Prince. What will they do with him now they've caught him? Oh, they're going to make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!"
"Poor Prince!" said Lady Carbury.
"Not at all. She's a nice enough little girl. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?"


Poor thing indeed! The Prince was brought into the big room where Marie was still being talked to by Felix Carbury, and was at once made to understand that she was to stand up and dance with royalty. The introduction was managed in a very business-like manner. Miles Grendall first came in and found the female victim; the Duchess followed with the male victim. Madame Melmotte, who had been on her legs till she was ready to sink, waddled behind, but was not allowed to take any part in the affair. The band were playing a galop, but that was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. In two minutes Miles Grendall had made up a set. He stood up with his aunt, the Duchess, as vis-a-vis to Marie and the Prince, till, about the middle of the quadrille, Legge Wilson was found and made to take his place. Lord Buntingford had gone away; but then there were still present two daughters of the Duchess who were rapidly caught. Sir Felix Carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made to dance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with the other.

Poor thing indeed! The Prince was brought into the room where Marie was with Felix Carbury, and she was informed by Miles Grendall that she was to stand up and dance with royalty.
The band were playing a gallop, but that was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. In two minutes Miles Grendall had made up a set. He stood up with his aunt, the Duchess, opposite Marie and the Prince. Two daughters of the Duchess were present: Sir Felix Carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made to dance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with the other.


There were four other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was intended that this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the "Evening Pulpit," in some less serious daily journal. A paid reporter was present in the house ready to rush off with the list as soon as the dance should be a realized fact. The Prince himself did not quite understand why he was there, but they who marshalled his life for him had so marshalled it for the present moment. He himself probably knew nothing about the lady's diamonds which had been rescued, or the considerable subscription to St. George's Hospital which had been extracted from Mr. Melmotte as a make-weight. Poor Marie felt as though the burden of the hour would be greater than she could bear, and looked as though she would have fled had flight been possible. But the trouble passed quickly, and was not really severe. The Prince said a word or two between each figure, and did not seem to expect a reply. He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the work of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for the moment inflicted with it. When the dance was over he was allowed to escape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drank in the presence of the hostess. Considerable skill was shown in keeping the presence of his royal guest a secret from the host himself till the Prince was gone.

There were four other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was intended that this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the Evening Pulpit, in some less serious journal. A paid reporter was ready to rush off with the list as soon as the dance began.
The Prince himself did not quite understand why he was there; he probably knew nothing about the lady's diamonds which had been rescued. Poor Marie looked as though she would have fled had flight been possible. But the trouble passed quickly. The Prince said a word or two, and did not seem to expect a reply. He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the work of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for the moment inflicted with it. When the dance was over he was allowed to escape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drunk with the hostess.
The presence of his royal guest was kept secret from the host himself till the Prince was gone.


Melmotte would have desired to pour out that glass of wine with his own hands, to solace his tongue by Royal Highnesses, and would probably have been troublesome and disagreeable. Miles Grendall had understood all this and had managed the affair very well. "Bless my soul;--his Royal Highness come and gone!" exclaimed Melmotte. "You and my father were so fast at your whist that it was impossible to get you away," said Miles. Melmotte was not a fool, and understood it all;--understood not only that it had been thought better that he should not speak to the Prince, but also that it might be better that it should be so. He could not have everything at once. Miles Grendall was very useful to him, and he would not quarrel with Miles, at any rate as yet.
[Illustration: The Duchess followed with the male victim.]

Melmotte would have desired to pour out that glass of wine with his own hands, and would probably have been troublesome and disagreeable. Miles Grendall had understood all this and had managed the affair very well.
"Bless my soul - his Royal Highness come and gone!" exclaimed Melmotte.
"You and my father were so absorbed at your whist that it was impossible to get you away," said Miles.
Melmotte was not a fool, and understood that it had been thought better that he should not speak to the Prince, but also that it might be better that it should be so. He could not have everything at once. Miles Grendall was very useful to him, and he would not quarrel with him just yet.


"Have another rubber, Alfred?" he said to Miles's father as the carriages were taking away the guests.