But no doubt your father objects to me specially because I am a Jew. If I were an atheist he might, perhaps, say nothing on the subject of religion. On this matter as well as on others it seems to me that your father has hardly kept pace with the movements of the age. Fifty years ago whatever claim a Jew might have to be as well considered as a Christian, he certainly was not so considered. Society was closed against him, except under special circumstances, and so were all the privileges of high position. But that has been altered. Your father does not admit the change; but I think he is blind to it, because he does not wish to see.

But no doubt your father objects to me specially because I am a Jew. If I were an atheist he might, perhaps, say nothing on the subject of religion. On this matter it seems to me that your father has hardly kept pace with the movements of the age. Fifty years ago Society was closed against the Jew, except under special circumstances, and so were all the privileges of high position. But that has been altered. Your father is blind to the change; but I think he does not wish to see.


I say all this more as defending myself than as combating his views with you. It must be for you and for you alone to decide how far his views shall govern you. He has told me, after a rather peremptory fashion, that I have behaved badly to him and to his family because I did not go to him in the first instance when I thought of obtaining the honour of an alliance with his daughter. I have been obliged to tell him that in this matter I disagree with him entirely, though in so telling him I endeavoured to restrain myself from any appearance of warmth. I had not the pleasure of meeting you in his house, nor had I any acquaintance with him. And again, at the risk of being thought uncourteous, I must say that you are to a certain degree emancipated by age from that positive subordination to which a few years ago you probably submitted without a question. If a gentleman meets a lady in society, as I met you in the home of our friend Mr. Melmotte, I do not think that the gentleman is to be debarred from expressing his feelings because the lady may possibly have a parent. Your father, no doubt with propriety, had left you to be the guardian of yourself, and I cannot submit to be accused of improper conduct because, finding you in that condition, I availed myself of it.

I say this more to defend myself than to combat his views. It must be for you and for you alone to decide how far his views shall govern you. He has told me, in a rather peremptory fashion, that I have behaved badly because I did not go to him in the first instance when I thought of obtaining the honour of an alliance with his daughter. I have been obliged to tell him that in this matter I disagree with him entirely. I had no acquaintance with him. And again, at the risk of being thought uncourteous, I must say that you are to a certain degree freed by age from that subordination to which a few years ago you probably submitted without question. Your father, no doubt with propriety, had left you to be the guardian of yourself, and I cannot submit to be accused of improper conduct because, finding you in that condition, I availed myself of it.


And now, having said so much, I must leave the question to be decided entirely by yourself. I beg you to understand that I do not at all wish to hold you to a promise merely because the promise has been given. I readily acknowledge that the opinion of your family should be considered by you, though I will not admit that I was bound to consult that opinion before I spoke to you. It may well be that your regard for me or your appreciation of the comforts with which I may be able to surround you, will not suffice to reconcile you to such a breach from your own family as your father, with much repetition, has assured me will be inevitable. Take a day or two to think of this and turn it well over in your mind. When I last had the happiness of speaking to you, you seemed to think that your parents might raise objections, but that those objections would give way before an expression of your own wishes. I was flattered by your so thinking; but, if I may form any judgment from your father's manner, I must suppose that you were mistaken. You will understand that I do not say this as any reproach to you. Quite the contrary. I think your father is irrational; and you may well have failed to anticipate that he should be so.

And now, having said so much, I must leave the question to be decided entirely by yourself. I beg you to understand that I do not at all wish to hold you to a promise merely because the promise has been given. I readily acknowledge that you should consider the opinion of your family. It may well be that your regard for me will not suffice to reconcile you to such a breach from your own family as your father, with much repetition, has assured me will be inevitable.
Take a day or two to think of this and turn it over in your mind. When I last had the happiness of speaking to you, you seemed to think that your parents might raise objections, but that those objections would give way before your own wishes. I was flattered by your so thinking; but I must suppose that you were mistaken. I do not say this as any reproach to you. Quite the contrary. I think your father is irrational; and you may well have failed to anticipate that he should be so.


As to my own feelings they remain exactly as they were when I endeavoured to explain them to you. Though I do not find myself to be too old to marry, I do think myself too old to write love letters. I have no doubt you believe me when I say that I entertain a most sincere affection for you; and I beseech you to believe me in saying further that should you become my wife it shall be the study of my life to make you happy.

As to my own feelings, they remain exactly the same as before. Though I do not find myself to be too old to marry, I do think myself too old to write love letters. However, I have a most sincere affection for you; and if you should become my wife it shall be the study of my life to make you happy.


It is essentially necessary that I should allude to one other matter, as to which I have already told your father what I will now tell you. I think it probable that within this week I shall find myself a loser of a very large sum of money through the failure of a gentleman whose bad treatment of me I will the more readily forgive because he was the means of making me known to you. This you must understand is private between you and me, though I have thought it proper to inform your father. Such loss, if it fall upon me, will not interfere in the least with the income which I have proposed to settle upon you for your use after my death; and, as your father declares that in the event of your marrying me he will neither give to you nor bequeath to you a shilling, he might have abstained from telling me to my face that I was a bankrupt merchant when I myself told him of my loss. I am not a bankrupt merchant nor at all likely to become so. Nor will this loss at all interfere with my present mode of living. But I have thought it right to inform you of it, because, if it occur,--as I think it will,--I shall not deem it right to keep a second establishment probably for the next two or three years. But my house at Fulham and my stables there will be kept up just as they are at present.

It is necessary that I should allude to one other matter; I have already told your father what I will now tell you. I think it probable that within this week I shall find myself a loser of a very large sum of money through the failure of a gentleman whose bad treatment of me I will the more readily forgive because he was the means of making me known to you. Such a loss, if it falls upon me, will not interfere in the least with the income which I have proposed to settle upon you for your use after my death; and, as your father declares that in the event of your marrying me he will not give you a shilling, he might have abstained from telling me that I was a bankrupt merchant when I myself told him of my loss. I am not a bankrupt merchant nor at all likely to become so. Nor will this loss interfere with my present mode of living. But I have thought it right to inform you of it, because, if it occurs, I shall probably not keep a second establishment for the next two or three years. But my house at Fulham and my stables there will be kept up just as they are at present.


I have now told you everything which I think it is necessary you should know, in order that you may determine either to adhere to or to recede from your engagement. When you have resolved you will let me know,--but a day or two may probably be necessary for your decision. I hope I need not say that a decision in my favour will make me a happy man.

I have now told you everything which I think it is necessary you should know, in order that you may determine either to keep to or withdraw from your engagement. I hope I need not say that a decision in my favour will make me a happy man.


I am, in the meantime, your affectionate friend,


This very long letter puzzled Georgey a good deal, and left her, at the time of reading it, very much in doubt as to what she would do. She could understand that it was a plain-spoken and truth-telling letter. Not that she, to herself, gave it praise for those virtues; but that it imbued her unconsciously with a thorough belief. She was apt to suspect deceit in other people;--but it did not occur to her that Mr. Brehgert had written a single word with an attempt to deceive her. But the single-minded genuine honesty of the letter was altogether thrown away upon her. She never said to herself, as she read it, that she might safely trust herself to this man, though he were a Jew, though greasy and like a butcher, though over fifty and with a family, because he was an honest man. She did not see that the letter was particularly sensible;--but she did allow herself to be pained by the total absence of romance. She was annoyed at the first allusion to her age, and angry at the second; and yet she had never supposed that Brehgert had taken her to be younger than she was. She was well aware that the world in general attributes more years to unmarried women than they have lived, as a sort of equalising counter-weight against the pretences which young women make on the other side, or the lies which are told on their behalf. Nor had she wished to appear peculiarly young in his eyes. But, nevertheless, she regarded the reference to be uncivil,--perhaps almost butcher-like,--and it had its effect upon her. And then the allusion to the "daughter or daughters" troubled her. She told herself that it was vulgar,--just what a butcher might have said. And although she was quite prepared to call her father the most irrational, the most prejudiced, and most ill-natured of men, yet she was displeased that Mr. Brehgert should take such a liberty with him. But the passage in Mr. Brehgert's letter which was most distasteful to her was that which told her of the loss which he might probably incur through his connection with Melmotte. What right had he to incur a loss which would incapacitate him from keeping his engagements with her? The town-house had been the great persuasion, and now he absolutely had the face to tell her that there was to be no town-house for three years. When she read this she felt that she ought to be indignant, and for a few moments was minded to sit down without further consideration and tell the man with considerable scorn that she would have nothing more to say to him.

This long letter puzzled Georgey a good deal, and left her very much in doubt as to what she would do. She could understand that it was a plain-spoken and truth-telling letter. Not that she gave it praise for those virtues; but it filled her unconsciously with a thorough belief.
But the genuine honesty of the letter was altogether thrown away upon her. She never said to herself, as she read it, that she might safely trust herself to this man, though he were a Jew over fifty, because he was honest. She did not see that the letter was particularly sensible; but she did allow herself to be pained by the total absence of romance. She was annoyed at the first allusion to her age, and angry at the second; and yet she had never supposed that Brehgert had taken her to be younger than she was. Nor had she wished to appear particularly young in his eyes. Nevertheless, she felt the reference to be uncivil, and it had its effect upon her.
And then the allusion to the "daughter or daughters" troubled her. She told herself that it was vulgar - just what a butcher might have said. And although she was quite prepared to call her father irrational and prejudiced, yet she was displeased that Mr. Brehgert should take such a liberty.
But the most distasteful passage in the letter was that which told her of the loss which he might incur through his connection with Melmotte. What right had he to incur a loss which would stop him from keeping his engagement? The town-house had been the great persuasion, and now he absolutely had the face to tell her that there was to be no town-house for three years. When she read this she felt that she ought to be indignant, and for a few moments was minded to sit down and tell the man scornfully that she would have nothing more to say to him.


But on that side too there would be terrible bitterness. How would she have fallen from her greatness when, barely forgiven by her father and mother for the vile sin which she had contemplated, she should consent to fill a common bridesmaid place at the nuptials of George Whitstable! And what would then be left to her in life? This episode of the Jew would make it quite impossible for her again to contest the question of the London house with her father. Lady Pomona and Mrs. George Whitstable would be united with him against her. There would be no "season" for her, and she would be nobody at Caversham. As for London, she would hardly wish to go there! Everybody would know the story of the Jew. She thought that she could have plucked up courage to face the world as the Jew's wife, but not as the young woman who had wanted to marry the Jew and had failed. How would her future life go with her, should she now make up her mind to retire from the proposed alliance? If she could get her father to take her abroad at once, she would do it; but she was not now in a condition to make any terms with her father. As all this gradually passed through her mind, she determined that she would so far take Mr. Brehgert's advice as to postpone her answer till she had well considered the matter.

But on that side too there would be terrible bitterness. How would she have fallen from her greatness when she would be a common bridesmaid at her sister's wedding! And what would then be left to her in life? There would be no "season" for her, and she would be nobody at Caversham. As for London, she would hardly wish to go there! Everybody would know the story of the Jew. She could have plucked up courage to face the world as the Jew's wife, but not as the young woman who had wanted to marry the Jew and had failed. If she could get her father to take her abroad at once, she would do it; but she was not now in a condition to make any terms with her father. As all this passed through her mind, she determined that she would so far take Mr. Brehgert's advice as to postpone her answer till she had considered the matter.


She slept upon it, and the next day she asked her mother a few questions. "Mamma, have you any idea what papa means to do?"


"In what way, my dear?" Lady Pomona's voice was not gracious, as she was free from that fear of her daughter's ascendancy which had formerly affected her.

"In what way, my dear?" Lady Pomona's voice was not gracious.


"Well;--I suppose he must have some plan."


"You must explain yourself. I don't know why he should have any particular plan."


"That will depend upon money, I suppose. What makes you ask?"


"Of course I have been very cruelly circumstanced. Everybody must see that. I'm sure you do, mamma. The long and the short of it is this;--if I give up my engagement, will he take us abroad for a year?"

"Of course I have been very cruelly circumstanced. Everybody must see that. The long and the short of it is this; if I give up my engagement, will he take us abroad for a year?"


"You can't suppose that I should be very comfortable in England. If we are to remain here at Caversham, how am I to hope ever to get settled?"

"You can't suppose that I should be comfortable in England. If we are to remain here at Caversham, how am I ever to get settled?"


"Oh, mamma, there are not two George Whitstables;--thank God." She had meant to be humble and supplicating, but she could not restrain herself from the use of that one shaft. "I don't mean but what Sophy may be very happy, and I am sure that I hope she will. But that won't do me any good. I should be very unhappy here."

"Oh, mamma, there are not two George Whitstables - thank God." She had meant to be humble, but she could not restrain herself from that one shaft. "I am sure that I hope she will be very happy. But that won't do me any good."


"I don't see how you are to find any one to marry you by going abroad," said Lady Pomona, "and I don't see why your papa is to be taken away from his own home. He likes Caversham."

"I don't see how you are to find anyone to marry you by going abroad," said Lady Pomona, "and I don't see why your papa is to be taken away from his home. He likes Caversham."


"Then I am to be sacrificed on every side," said Georgey, stalking out of the room. But still she could not make up her mind what letter she would write to Mr. Brehgert, and she slept upon it another night.


On the next day after breakfast she did write her letter, though when she sat down to her task she had not clearly made up her mind what she would say. But she did get it written, and here it is.

On the next day after breakfast she did write her letter, though when she sat down she had not clearly made up her mind what she would say. But she got it written, and here it is.


As you told me not to hurry, I have taken a little time to think about your letter. Of course it would be very disagreeable to quarrel with papa and mamma and everybody. And if I do do so, I'm sure somebody ought to be very grateful. But papa has been very unfair in what he has said. As to not asking him, it could have been of no good, for of course he would be against it. He thinks a great deal of the Longestaffe family, and so, I suppose, ought I. But the world does change so quick that one doesn't think of anything now as one used to do. Anyway, I don't feel that I'm bound to do what papa tells me just because he says it. Though I'm not quite so old as you seem to think, I'm old enough to judge for myself,--and I mean to do so. You say very little about affection, but I suppose I am to take all that for granted.

As you told me not to hurry, I have taken a little time to think about your letter. Of course it would be very disagreeable to quarrel with papa and mamma and everybody. And if I do so, I'm sure somebody ought to be very grateful. But papa has been very unfair. He thinks a great deal of the Longestaffe family, and so, I suppose, ought I. But the world does change so quick that one doesn't think of anything now as one used to do. Anyway, I don't feel that I'm bound to do what papa tells me just because he says it. Though I'm not quite so old as you seem to think, I'm old enough to judge for myself, and I mean to do so. You say very little about affection, but I suppose I am to take all that for granted.


I don't wonder at papa being annoyed about the loss of the money. It must be a very great sum when it will prevent your having a house in London,--as you agreed. It does make a great difference, because, of course, as you have no regular place in the country, one could only see one's friends in London. Fulham is all very well now and then, but I don't think I should like to live at Fulham all the year through. You talk of three years, which would be dreadful. If as you say it will not have any lasting effect, could you not manage to have a house in town? If you can do it in three years, I should think you could do it now. I should like to have an answer to this question. I do think so much about being the season in town!

I don't wonder at papa being annoyed about the loss of the money. It must be a very great sum when it will prevent your having a house in London, as you agreed. It does make a great difference, because one could only see one's friends in London. Fulham is all very well now and then, but I don't think I should like to live at Fulham all the year through. You talk of three years, which would be dreadful. If as you say it will not have any lasting effect, could you not manage to have a house in town? If you can do it in three years, I should think you could do it now. I should like to have an answer to this question. I do think so much about spending the season in town!


As for the other parts of your letter, I knew very well beforehand that papa would be unhappy about it. But I don't know why I'm to let that stand in my way when so very little is done to make me happy. Of course you will write to me again, and I hope you will say something satisfactory about the house in London.


It probably never occurred to Georgey that Mr. Brehgert would under any circumstances be anxious to go back from his engagement. She so fully recognised her own value as a Christian lady of high birth and position giving herself to a commercial Jew, that she thought that under any circumstances Mr. Brehgert would be only too anxious to stick to his bargain. Nor had she any idea that there was anything in her letter which could probably offend him. She thought that she might at any rate make good her claim to the house in London; and that as there were other difficulties on his side, he would yield to her on this point. But as yet she hardly knew Mr. Brehgert. He did not lose a day in sending to her a second letter. He took her letter with him to his office in the city, and there answered it without a moment's delay.

It probably never occurred to Georgey that Mr. Brehgert might wish to go back from his engagement. She so fully recognised her own value as a Christian lady of high birth that she thought that Mr. Brehgert would be only too anxious to stick to his bargain. Nor had she any idea that there was anything in her letter which could offend him. She thought that she might at least make good her claim to the house in London; and that he would yield to her on this point. But Mr. Brehgert did not lose a day in replying to her.


No. 7, St. Cuthbert's Court, London, Tuesday, July 16, 18--.


You say it would be very disagreeable to you to quarrel with your papa and mamma; and as I agree with you, I will take your letter as concluding our intimacy. I should not, however, be dealing quite fairly with you or with myself if I gave you to understand that I felt myself to be coerced to this conclusion simply by your qualified assent to your parents' views. It is evident to me from your letter that you would not wish to be my wife unless I can supply you with a house in town as well as with one in the country. But this for the present is out of my power. I would not have allowed my losses to interfere with your settlement because I had stated a certain income; and must therefore to a certain extent have compromised my children. But I should not have been altogether happy till I had replaced them in their former position, and must therefore have abstained from increased expenditure till I had done so. But of course I have no right to ask you to share with me the discomfort of a single home. I may perhaps add that I had hoped that you would have looked to your happiness to another source, and that I will bear my disappointment as best I may.

You say it would be very disagreeable to you to quarrel with your papa and mamma; and as I agree with you, I will take your letter as concluding our intimacy. I should not, however, be dealing quite fairly with you or with myself if I gave you to understand that I felt myself to be forced to this conclusion simply by your qualified assent to your parents' views. It is evident to me from your letter that you would not wish to be my wife unless I can supply you with a house in town. But this for the present is out of my power. I would not have allowed my losses to interfere with your settlement, but I must therefore to a certain extent have compromised my children. I should not have been happy till I had replaced them in their former position, and must therefore have abstained from increased expenditure till I had done so. But of course I have no right to ask you to share with me the discomfort of a single home. I may perhaps add that I had hoped that you would have looked for your happiness to another source, and that I will bear my disappointment as best I may.


As you may perhaps under these circumstances be unwilling that I should wear the ring you gave me, I return it by post. I trust you will be good enough to keep the trifle you were pleased to accept from me, in remembrance of one who will always wish you well.

As you may under these circumstances be unwilling that I should wear the ring you gave me, I return it by post. I trust you will be good enough to keep the trifle you were pleased to accept from me, in remembrance of one who will always wish you well.


And so it was all over! Georgey, when she read this letter, was very indignant at her lover's conduct. She did not believe that her own letter had at all been of a nature to warrant it. She had regarded herself as being quite sure of him, and only so far doubting herself, as to be able to make her own terms because of such doubts. And now the Jew had rejected her! She read this last letter over and over again, and the more she read it the more she felt that in her heart of hearts she had intended to marry him. There would have been inconveniences no doubt, but they would have been less than the sorrow on the other side. Now she saw nothing before her but a long vista of Caversham dullness, in which she would be trampled upon by her father and mother, and scorned by Mr. and Mrs. George Whitstable.

And so it was all over! Georgey, when she read this letter, was very indignant at her lover's conduct. She did not believe that her own letter had at all warranted it. She had been quite sure of him. And now the Jew had rejected her! She read this letter over and over again, and the more she read it the more she felt that in her heart of hearts she had intended to marry him. There would have been inconveniences no doubt; but now she saw nothing before her but a long vista of Caversham dullness, in which she would be trampled upon by her father and mother, and scorned by Mr. and Mrs. George Whitstable.


She got up and walked about the room thinking of vengeance. But what vengeance was possible to her? Everybody belonging to her would take the part of the Jew in that which he had now done. She could not ask Dolly to beat him; nor could she ask her father to visit him with the stern frown of paternal indignation. There could be no revenge. For a time,--only for a few seconds,--she thought that she would write to Mr. Brehgert and tell him that she had not intended to bring about this termination of their engagement. This, no doubt, would have been an appeal to the Jew for mercy;--and she could not quite descend to that. But she would keep the watch and chain he had given her, and which somebody had told her had not cost less than a hundred and fifty guineas. She could not wear them, as people would know whence they had come; but she might exchange them for jewels which she could wear.

She got up and walked about the room thinking of vengeance. But what vengeance was possible? She could not ask Dolly to beat him; nor could she ask her father to visit him with paternal indignation. There could be no revenge. For a time - only for a few seconds - she thought that she would write to Mr. Brehgert and tell him that she had not intended to end their engagement. But she could not quite descend to that. However she would keep the watch and chain he had given her, and which somebody had told her had cost more than a hundred and fifty guineas. She could not wear them, as people would know whence they had come; but she might exchange them for jewels which she could wear.


At lunch she said nothing to her sister, but in the course of the afternoon she thought it best to inform her mother. "Mamma," she said, "as you and papa take it so much to heart, I have broken off everything with Mr. Brehgert."

She thought it best to inform her mother. "Mamma," she said, "as you and papa take it so much to heart, I have broken off everything with Mr. Brehgert."


"Of course it must be broken off," said Lady Pomona. This was very ungracious,--so much so that Georgey almost flounced out of the room. "Have you heard from the man?" asked her ladyship.

"Of course it must be broken off," said Lady Pomona. This was so ungracious that Georgey almost flounced out of the room. "Have you heard from the man?" asked her ladyship.


"I have written to him, and he has answered me; and it is all settled. I thought that you would have said something kind to me." And the unfortunate young woman burst out into tears.

"I have written to him, and it is all settled. I thought that you would have said something kind to me." And she burst into tears.


"It was so dreadful," said Lady Pomona;--"so very dreadful. I never heard of anything so bad. When young what's-his-name married the tallow-chandler's daughter I thought it would have killed me if it had been Dolly; but this was worse than that. Her father was a methodist."

"It was so very dreadful," said Lady Pomona; "I never heard of anything so bad. It was worse than when young what's-his-name married the tallow-chandler's daughter."


"They had neither of them a shilling of money," said Georgey through her tears.

"They had neither of them a shilling," said Georgey through her tears.


"And your papa says this man was next door to a bankrupt. But it's all over?"


"And now we must all remain here at Caversham till people forget it. It has been very hard upon George Whitstable, because of course everybody has known it through the county. I once thought he would have been off, and I really don't know that we could have said anything." At that moment Sophy entered the room. "It's all over between Georgiana and the--man," said Lady Pomona, who hardly saved herself from stigmatising him by a further reference to his religion.

"And now we must all remain here at Caversham till people forget it. It has been very hard upon George Whitstable. I once thought he would have been off, and I really don't know that we could have said anything." At that moment Sophy entered the room. "It's all over between Georgiana and that man," said Lady Pomona.


"Of course it could never have really taken place," said their mother.


"And now I beg that nothing more may be said about it," said Georgiana. "I suppose, mamma, you will write to papa?"


"You must send him back his watch and chain, Georgey," said Sophia.


"Of course she must. Her papa would not let her keep it."

"Of course she must. Papa would not let her keep it."


To such a miserable depth of humility had the younger Miss Longestaffe been brought by her ill-considered intimacy with the Melmottes! Georgiana, when she looked back on this miserable episode in her life, always attributed her grief to the scandalous breach of compact of which her father had been guilty.

To such a miserable depth of humility had she been brought! Georgiana, when she looked back on this miserable episode in her life, always blamed her father for her grief, by bringing about her ill-considered intimacy with the Melmottes.


Lord Nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own part of the performance when he left the House of Commons, and was, we may say, disgusted with his own position generally, when he considered all its circumstances. That had been at the commencement of the evening, and Melmotte had not then been tipsy; but he had behaved with unsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lord drink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. Everybody now knew it as a positive fact that the charges made against the man were to become matter of investigation before the chief magistrate for the City, everybody knew that he had committed forgery upon forgery, everybody knew that he could not pay for the property which he had pretended to buy, and that he was actually a ruined man;--and yet he had seized Nidderdale by the hand, and called the young lord "his dear boy" before the whole House.

Lord Nidderdale was greatly disgusted with his own position when he left the House of Commons. Melmotte had behaved with unsurpassable arrogance and vulgarity, and had made the young lord drink the cup of his own disgrace to the very dregs. Everybody now knew that the man had committed forgery upon forgery, and that he was ruined; and yet he had seized Nidderdale by the hand, and called him "his dear boy" before the whole House.

Chapter 85: Breakfast in Berkeley Square


And then he had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. If he had not himself spoken openly of his coming marriage with the girl, he had allowed other men to speak to him about it. He had quarrelled with one man for saying that Melmotte was a rogue, and had confidentially told his most intimate friends that in spite of a little vulgarity of manner, Melmotte at bottom was a very good fellow. How was he now to back out of his intimacy with the Melmottes generally? He was engaged to marry the girl, and there was nothing of which he could accuse her. He acknowledged to himself that she deserved well at his hands. Though at this moment he hated the father most bitterly, as those odious words, and the tone in which they had been pronounced, rang in his ears, nevertheless he had some kindly feeling for the girl. Of course he could not marry her now. That was manifestly out of the question. She herself, as well as all others, had known that she was to be married for her money, and now that bubble had been burst. But he felt that he owed it to her, as to a comrade who had on the whole been loyal to him, to have some personal explanation with herself. He arranged in his own mind the sort of speech that he would make to her. "Of course you know it can't be. It was all arranged because you were to have a lot of money, and now it turns out that you haven't got any. And I haven't got any, and we should have nothing to live upon. It's out of the question. But, upon my word, I'm very sorry, for I like you very much, and I really think we should have got on uncommon well together." That was the kind of speech that he suggested to himself, but he did not know how to find for himself the opportunity of making it. He thought that he must put it all into a letter. But then that would be tantamount to a written confession that he had made her an offer of marriage, and he feared that Melmotte,--or Madame Melmotte on his behalf, if the great man himself were absent, in prison,--might make an ungenerous use of such an admission.

And Nidderdale had made himself conspicuous as this man's advocate. He had quarrelled with one man for saying that Melmotte was a rogue, and had told his friends that in spite of a little vulgarity, Melmotte at bottom was a very good fellow. How was he now to back out of his intimacy with the Melmottes? He was engaged to marry the girl, and could accuse her of nothing. He had some kindly feeling for her. Of course he could not marry her now; but he felt that he owed it to her to explain.
He imagined what he would say. "Of course you know it can't be, now that it turns out that you haven't got any money. And I haven't got any, and we should have nothing to live upon. But, upon my word, I'm very sorry, for I like you very much, and I really think we should have got on uncommon well together."


Between seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, and there he saw Dolly Longestaffe and others. Everybody was talking about Melmotte, the prevailing belief being that he was at this moment in custody. Dolly was full of his own griefs; but consoled amidst them by a sense of his own importance. "I wonder whether it's true," he was saying to Lord Grasslough. "He has an appointment to meet me and my governor at twelve o'clock to-morrow, and to pay us what he owes us. He swore yesterday that he would have the money to-morrow. But he can't keep his appointment, you know, if he's in prison."

Between seven and eight he went into the Beargarden, where he saw Dolly Longestaffe and others. Everybody was talking about Melmotte, believing that he was now in custody.
"I wonder whether it's true," Dolly was saying to Lord Grasslough. "He was to meet me and my governor tomorrow, and to pay us what he owes us."


"You won't see the money, Dolly, you may swear to that," said Grasslough.

"You won't see the money, Dolly," said Grasslough.


"I don't suppose I shall. By George, what an ass my governor has been. He had no more right than you have to give up the property. Here's Nidderdale. He could tell us where he is; but I'm afraid to speak to him since he cut up so rough the other night."

"I don't suppose I shall. By George, what an ass my governor has been. Here's Nidderdale. He could tell us where he is."


In a moment the conversation was stopped; but when Lord Grasslough asked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything about Melmotte, the latter answered out loud, "Yes;--I left him in the House half an hour ago."

When Lord Grasslough asked Nidderdale in a whisper whether he knew anything about Melmotte, he answered out loud.
"Yes; I left him in the House half an hour ago."


"People are saying that he has been arrested."


"I heard that also; but he certainly had not been arrested when I left the House." Then he went up and put his hand on Dolly Longestaffe's shoulder, and spoke to him. "I suppose you were about right the other night and I was about wrong; but you could understand what it was that I meant. I'm afraid this is a bad look out for both of us."

"He had not been arrested when I left the House." Then he put his hand on Dolly Longestaffe's shoulder. "You were right the other night and I was wrong; but I'm afraid this is a bad look out for both of us."


"Yes;--I understand. It's deuced bad for me," said Dolly. "I think you're very well out of it. But I'm glad there's not to be a quarrel. Suppose we have a rubber of whist."

"Yes, it's deuced bad for me," said Dolly. "You're well out of it. Suppose we have a rubber of whist."


Later on in the night news was brought to the club that Melmotte had tried to make a speech in the House, that he had been very drunk, and that he had tumbled over, upsetting Beauchamp Beauclerk in his fall. "By George, I should like to have seen that!" said Dolly.

Later that night news was brought to the club that Melmotte had tried to make a speech in the House, very drunk, and had tumbled over.
"By George, I should like to have seen that!" said Dolly.


"I am very glad I was not there," said Nidderdale. It was three o'clock before they left the card table, at which time Melmotte was lying dead upon the floor in Mr. Longestaffe's house.

"I am glad I was not there," said Nidderdale.
It was three o'clock before they left the card table; and Melmotte was lying dead upon the floor in Mr. Longestaffe's house.


On the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat at breakfast with his father in the old lord's house in Berkeley Square. From thence the house which Melmotte had hired was not above a few hundred yards distant. At this time the young lord was living with his father, and the two had now met by appointment in order that something might be settled between them as to the proposed marriage. The Marquis was not a very pleasant companion when the affairs in which he was interested did not go exactly as he would have them. He could be very cross and say most disagreeable words,--so that the ladies of the family, and others connected with him, for the most part, found it impossible to live with him. But his eldest son had endured him;--partly perhaps because, being the eldest, he had been treated with a nearer approach to courtesy, but chiefly by means of his own extreme good humour. What did a few hard words matter? If his father was ungracious to him, of course he knew what all that meant. As long as his father would make fair allowance for his own peccadilloes,--he also would make allowances for his father's roughness. All this was based on his grand theory of live and let live. He expected his father to be a little cross on this occasion, and he acknowledged to himself that there was cause for it.

On the following morning, at ten o'clock, Lord Nidderdale sat at breakfast with his father in Berkeley Square. The house which Melmotte had hired was only a few hundred yards distant.


He was a little late himself, and he found his father already buttering his toast. "I don't believe you'd get out of bed a moment sooner than you liked if you could save the whole property by it."

Nidderdale was a little late to breakfast, and found his father already buttering his toast.


"You show me how I can make a guinea by it, sir, and see if I don't earn the money." Then he sat down and poured himself out a cup of tea, and looked at the kidneys and looked at the fish.

He sat down and poured himself a cup of tea.


"I suppose you were drinking last night," said the old lord.


"Not particular." The old man turned round and gnashed his teeth at him. "The fact is, sir, I don't drink. Everybody knows that."


"I know when you're in the country you can't live without champagne. Well;--what have you got to say about all this?"

"Well; what have you got to say about all this?


"You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it."


"I've been guided by you in everything. Come, now; you ought to own that. I suppose the whole thing is over?"

"I've been guided by you in everything, sir. I suppose the whole thing is over?"


"I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her own money." Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviour in the House on the preceding evening. "What the devil does that matter?" said the old man. "You're not going to marry the man himself."

"I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has her own money." Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviour in the House. "What the devil does that matter?" said the old man. "You're not going to marry the man himself.


"I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now."


"And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money is hers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't be choosers. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?"

If the money is hers, she can't lose it if he goes to prison. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?"


"I shall scrape on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else." The Marquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give his son much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making such a search. "At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who is to be put upon his trial for forgery."

"I shall scrape on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else." The Marquis snorted. "At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who is to be put on trial for forgery."


"I can't see what that has to do with you."


"I couldn't do it, sir. I'd do anything else to oblige you, but I couldn't do that. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money."

"I couldn't do it, sir. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money."


"Then you may just go to the devil," said the old Marquis turning himself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took up the newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect equanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. "They tell me," said the old man, "that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money."

"Then you may go to the devil," said the old Marquis turning round, and lighting a cigar as he took up the newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect equanimity.
"They tell me," said the old man, "that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money."


[Illustration: "What difference does that make?"]


"Oh no;--not in the least;--if the money's really there. Have you heard any sum named, sir?" The old man only grunted. "There are two sisters and two brothers. I don't suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each."

"None in the least, if the money's really there. I don't suppose the girls would have a hundred thousand each."


"They say the widow of that brewer who died the other day has about twenty thousand a year."


"She could insure her life. D----me, sir, we must do something. If you turn up your nose at one woman after another how do you mean to live?"

"D___ me, sir, we must do something. If you turn up your nose at one woman after another, how do you mean to live?"


"I don't think that a woman of forty with only a life interest would be a good speculation. Of course I'll think of it if you press it." The old man growled again. "You see, sir, I've been so much in earnest about this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring about any one else. There always is some one up with a lot of money. It's a pity there shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount of money, and what is expected in return. It 'd save a deal of trouble."

"I've been so much in earnest about this girl that I haven't thought of inquiring about anyone else. It's a pity there shouldn't be a regular statement published with the amount of money, and what is expected in return. It'd save a deal of trouble."


"If you can't talk more seriously than that you'd better go away," said the old Marquis.

"If you can't talk more seriously you'd better go away," said the old Marquis.


At that moment a footman came into the room and told Lord Nidderdale that a man particularly wished to see him in the hall. He was not always anxious to see those who called on him, and he asked the servant whether he knew who the man was. "I believe, my lord, he's one of the domestics from Mr. Melmotte's in Bruton Street," said the footman, who was no doubt fully acquainted with all the circumstances of Lord Nidderdale's engagement. The son, who was still smoking, looked at his father as though in doubt. "You'd better go and see," said the Marquis. But Nidderdale before he went asked a question as to what he had better do if Melmotte had sent for him. "Go and see Melmotte. Why should you be afraid to see him? Tell him that you are ready to marry the girl if you can see the money down, but that you won't stir a step till it has been actually paid over."

At that moment a footman came in and told Lord Nidderdale that a man particularly wished to see him in the hall.
"I believe, my lord, he's one of the domestics from Mr. Melmotte's in Bruton Street," said the footman.
"You'd better go and see," said the Marquis. "Go and tell Melmotte that you are ready to marry the girl, but that you won't stir a step till the money is actually paid over."


"He knows that already," said Nidderdale as he left the room.


In the hall he found a man whom he recognised as Melmotte's butler, a ponderous, elderly, heavy man who now had a letter in his hand. But the lord could tell by the man's face and manner that he himself had some story to tell. "Is there anything the matter?"

In the hall he found Melmotte's butler, a ponderous man who held a letter. He could tell by the man's face that he had some story to tell.
"Is there anything the matter?"


"Yes, my lord,--yes. Oh, dear,--oh, dear! I think you'll be sorry to hear it. There was none who came there he seemed to take to so much as your lordship."

"Yes, my lord. Oh, dear! I think you'll be sorry to hear it. There was none who he seemed to take to so much as your lordship."


"They've taken him to prison!" exclaimed Nidderdale. But the man shook his head. "What is it then? He can't be dead." Then the man nodded his head, and, putting his hand up to his face, burst into tears. "Mr. Melmotte dead! He was in the House of Commons last night. I saw him myself. How did he die?" But the fat, ponderous man was so affected by the tragedy he had witnessed, that he could not as yet give any account of the scene of his master's death, but simply handed the note which he had in his hand to Lord Nidderdale. It was from Marie, and had been written within half an hour of the time at which news had been brought to her of what had occurred. The note was as follows:--

"They've taken him to prison!" exclaimed Nidderdale. But the man shook his head. "What is it then? He can't be dead." Then the man nodded, and, putting his hand to his face, burst into tears. "Mr. Melmotte dead! But I saw him last night. How did he die?"
But the ponderous man was so affected that he could not speak. He simply handed over the note in his hand. It was from Marie:


The man will tell you what has happened. I feel as though I was mad. I do not know who to send to. Will you come to me, only for a few minutes?


He read it standing up in the hall, and then again asked the man as to the manner of his master's death. And now the Marquis, gathering from a word or two that he heard and from his son's delay that something special had occurred, hobbled out into the hall. "Mr. Melmotte is--dead," said his son. The old man dropped his stick, and fell back against the wall. "This man says that he is dead, and here is a letter from Marie asking me to go there. How was it that he--died?"

He read it standing up in the hall. The Marquis, hearing a word or two, hobbled out to him.
"Mr. Melmotte is dead," said his son. The old man dropped his stick. "This is a letter from Marie asking me to go there. How did he die?"


"It was--poison," said the butler solemnly. "There has been a doctor already, and there isn't no doubt of that. He took it all by himself last night. He came home, perhaps a little fresh, and he had in brandy and soda and cigars;--and sat himself down all to himself. Then in the morning, when the young woman went in,--there he was,--poisoned! I see him lay on the ground, and I helped to lift him up, and there was that smell of prussic acid that I knew what he had been and done just the same as when the doctor came and told us."

"Poison," said the butler solemnly. "A doctor has been, and there is no doubt. He came home last night and had brandy and soda and cigars; and sat down by himself. Then in the morning, there he was - poisoned! I smelt prussic acid and knew what he had been and done, just like the doctor said."


Before the man could be allowed to go back, there was a consultation between the father and son as to a compliance with the request which Marie had made in her first misery. The Marquis thought that his son had better not go to Bruton Street. "What's the use? What good can you do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've got to avoid,--at any rate, till you know how things are."

Then the Marquis thought that his son had better not go to Bruton Street. "What's the use? What good can you do? She'll only be falling into your arms, and that's what you've got to avoid, till you know how things are."


But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to submit to this advice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her abject misery had turned to him as the friend she knew best. At any rate for the time the heartlessness of his usual life deserted him, and he felt willing to devote himself to the girl not for what he could get,--but because she had so nearly been so near to him. "I couldn't refuse her," he said over and over again. "I couldn't bring myself to do it. Oh, no;--I shall certainly go."

But Nidderdale's better feelings would not allow him to follow this advice. He had been engaged to marry the girl, and she in her misery had turned to him.
"I couldn't refuse her," he said. "I shall go.


"Then I must get into a mess. I shall certainly go. I will go at once. It is very disagreeable, but I cannot possibly refuse. It would be abominable." Then going back to the hall, he sent a message by the butler to Marie, saying that he would be with her in less than half an hour.


"Don't you go and make a fool of yourself," his father said to him when he was alone. "This is just one of those times when a man may ruin himself by being soft-hearted." Nidderdale simply shook his head as he took his hat and gloves to go across to Bruton Street.

And he took up his hat and gloves to go across to Bruton Street.


Lady Carbury continued to ask frequent questions as to the prosecution of her son's suit, and Sir Felix began to think that he was persecuted. "I have spoken to her father," he said crossly.

Lady Carbury asked frequent questions about her son's suit for Marie's hand, until Sir Felix began to think that he was persecuted.
"I have spoken to her father," he said crossly.


"Say;--what should he say? He wanted to know what income I had got. After all he's an old screw."

"Say - what should he say? He wanted to know what income I had got. He's an old screw."


"Did he forbid you to come there any more?"


"Now, mother, it's no use your cross-examining me. If you'll let me alone I'll do the best I can."


"Of course she has. I told you that at Carbury."


"Then, Felix, if I were you I'd run off with her. I would indeed. It's done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you marry the girl. You could do it now because I know you've got money. From all I can hear she's just the sort of girl that would go with you." The son sat silent, listening to these maternal councils. He did believe that Marie would go off with him, were he to propose the scheme to her. Her own father had almost alluded to such a proceeding,--had certainly hinted that it was feasible,--but at the same time had very clearly stated that in such case the ardent lover would have to content himself with the lady alone. In any such event as that there would be no fortune. But then, might not that only be a threat? Rich fathers generally do forgive their daughters, and a rich father with only one child would surely forgive her when she returned to him, as she would do in this instance, graced with a title. Sir Felix thought of all this as he sat there silent. His mother read his thoughts as she continued. "Of course, Felix, there must be some risk."

"Then, Felix, if I were you I'd run off with her. I would indeed. It's done every day, and nobody thinks any harm of it when you marry the girl. From all I can hear she's just the sort of girl that would go with you."
The son sat silent. He did believe that Marie would go off with him if he asked. Her own father had hinted that such a thing was feasible, but at the same time had very clearly stated that in such case the lady would have no money.
But then, might not that be only a threat? Rich fathers generally forgive their daughters, and a rich father with only one child would surely forgive her when she returned graced with a title. Sir Felix thought of all this as he sat silent.
His mother read his thoughts. "Of course, Felix, there must be some risk."


"Fancy what it would be to be thrown over at last!" he exclaimed. "I couldn't bear it. I think I should kill her."

"Imagine if I were to be thrown over at last!" he exclaimed. "I couldn't bear it. I think I should kill her."


"Oh no, Felix; you wouldn't do that. But when I say there would be some risk I mean that there would be very little. There would be nothing in it that ought to make him really angry. He has nobody else to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to have his daughter, Lady Carbury, with him, than to be left all alone in the world."

"Oh no, Felix; you wouldn't do that. But when I say some risk, I mean very little. He has nobody else to give his money to, and it would be much nicer to have his daughter, Lady Carbury, with him, than to be left all alone in the world."


"I couldn't live with him, you know. I couldn't do it."


"You needn't live with him, Felix. Of course she would visit her parents. When the money was once settled you need see as little of them as you pleased. Pray do not allow trifles to interfere with you. If this should not succeed, what are you to do? We shall all starve unless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her away at once. They say she is of age."

"You needn't live with him, Felix. Of course she would visit her parents. Once the money was settled you need see little of them. Pray do not allow trifles to interfere. If this should not succeed, what are you to do? We shall all starve unless something be done. If I were you, Felix, I would take her away at once."


"I shouldn't know where to take her," said Sir Felix, almost stunned into thoughtfulness by the magnitude of the proposition made to him. "All that about Scotland is done with now."

"I shouldn't know where to take her," said Sir Felix, almost stunned by the magnitude of the proposition.


"Of course you would marry her at once."


"I suppose so,--unless it were better to stay as we were, till the money was settled."

Maybe better not to marry, till the money was settled."


"Oh, no; no! Everybody would be against you. If you take her off in a spirited sort of way and then marry her, everybody will be with you. That's what you want. The father and mother will be sure to come round, if--"

"Oh, no; no! Everybody would be against you. If you take her off in a spirited way and then marry her, everybody will be with you. The father will be sure to come round,


"He will come round if people speak up in your favour. I could get Mr. Alf and Mr. Broune to help. I'd try it, Felix; indeed I would. Ten thousand a year is not to be had every year."

if people speak up in your favour. I could get Mr. Alf and Mr. Broune to help. I'd try it, Felix."


Sir Felix gave no assent to his mother's views. He felt no desire to relieve her anxiety by an assurance of activity in the matter. But the prospect was so grand that it had excited even him. He had money sufficient for carrying out the scheme, and if he delayed the matter now, it might well be that he would never again find himself so circumstanced. He thought that he would ask somebody whither he ought to take her, and what he ought to do with her;--and that he would then make the proposition to herself. Miles Grendall would be the man to tell him, because, with all his faults, Miles did understand things. But he could not ask Miles. He and Nidderdale were good friends; but Nidderdale wanted the girl for himself. Grasslough would be sure to tell Nidderdale. Dolly would be altogether useless. He thought that, perhaps, Herr Vossner would be the man to help him. There would be no difficulty out of which Herr Vossner would not extricate "a fellow,"--if "the fellow" paid him.

Sir Felix gave no assent. But the prospect was so grand that it excited even him. He had enough money to carry out the scheme, and if he delayed now, he might never have the chance again. He thought that he would ask somebody where he ought to take her. Miles Grendall would know, but he could not ask Miles. He and Nidderdale were good friends; but Nidderdale wanted the girl for himself. Dolly would be altogether useless. He thought that, perhaps, Herr Vossner would help him. Herr Vossner would help any fellow out of difficulty, for a payment.


On Thursday evening he went to Grosvenor Square, as desired by Marie,--but unfortunately found Melmotte in the drawing-room. Lord Nidderdale was there also, and his lordship's old father, the Marquis of Auld Reekie, whom Felix, when he entered the room, did not know. He was a fierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes, and very stiff grey hair,--almost white. He was standing up supporting himself on two sticks when Sir Felix entered the room. There were also present Madame Melmotte, Miss Longestaffe, and Marie. As Felix had entered the hall one huge footman had said that the ladies were not at home; then there had been for a moment a whispering behind a door,--in which he afterwards conceived that Madame Didon had taken a part;--and upon that a second tall footman had contradicted the first and had ushered him up to the drawing-room. He felt considerably embarrassed, but shook hands with the ladies, bowed to Melmotte, who seemed to take no notice of him, and nodded to Lord Nidderdale. He had not had time to place himself, when the Marquis arranged things. "Suppose we go down-stairs," said the Marquis.

On Thursday evening he went to Grosvenor Square, as desired by Marie, but unfortunately found Melmotte in the drawing-room. Lord Nidderdale was there also, with his father, the Marquis of Auld Reekie, a fierce-looking, gouty old man, with watery eyes, and very stiff grey hair. There were also present Madame Melmotte, Miss Longestaffe, and Marie. Felix shook hands with the ladies, bowed to Melmotte, who seemed to take no notice of him, and nodded to Lord Nidderdale.
A moment later the old Marquis said, "Suppose we go downstairs."


"Certainly, my lord," said Melmotte. "I'll show your lordship the way." The Marquis did not speak to his son, but poked at him with his stick, as though poking him out of the door. So instigated Nidderdale followed the financier, and the gouty old Marquis toddled after them.

"Certainly, my lord," said Melmotte. "I'll show your lordship the way." The Marquis poked at his son with his stick until Nidderdale followed Melmotte; and the gouty old Marquis toddled after them.


Madame Melmotte was beside herself with trepidation. "You should not have been made to come up at all," she said. "Il faut que vous vous retirez."

Madame Melmotte was beside herself with anxiety. "You should not have been shown in," she said. "You have to go."


"I am very sorry," said Sir Felix, looking quite aghast.

"I am very sorry," said Sir Felix, quite aghast.


"I think that I had at any rate better retire," said Miss Longestaffe, raising herself to her full height and stalking out of the room.

"I think that I had better retire," said Miss Longestaffe, stalking out of the room.


"Qu'elle est mchante," said Madame Melmotte. "Oh, she is so bad. Sir Felix, you had better go too. Yes,--indeed."

"Oh, she is so bad," said Madame Melmotte. "Sir Felix, you had better go too."


"No," said Marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm. "Why should he go? I want papa to know."


"Il vous tuera," said Madame Melmotte. "My God, yes."

"He will kill you," said Madame Melmotte. "My God, yes."


"Then he shall," said Marie, clinging to her lover. "I will never marry Lord Nidderdale. If he were to cut me into bits I wouldn't do it. Felix, you love me;--do you not?"

"Then he shall," said Marie, clinging to her lover. "I will never marry Lord Nidderdale. Felix, you love me - do you not?"


"Certainly," said Sir Felix, slipping his arm round her waist.


"Mamma," said Marie, "I will never have any other man but him;--never, never, never. Oh, Felix, tell her that you love me."

"Mamma," said Marie, "I will never have any other man but him; never, never, never. Felix, tell her that you love me."


"You know that, don't you, ma'am?" Sir Felix was a little troubled in his mind as to what he should say, or what he should do.

"You know that, don't you, ma'am?" Sir Felix was a little troubled as to what he should say or do.


"Oh, love! It is a beastliness," said Madame Melmotte. "Sir Felix, you had better go. Yes, indeed. Will you be so obliging?"

"Oh, love! It is a beastliness," said Madame Melmotte. "Sir Felix, you had better go."


"Don't go," said Marie. "No, mamma, he shan't go. What has he to be afraid of? I will walk down among them into papa's room, and say that I will never marry that man, and that this is my lover. Felix, will you come?"

"Don't go," said Marie. "No, mamma. I will walk down into papa's room, and say that I will never marry that man, and that this is my lover. Felix, will you come?"


Sir Felix did not quite like the proposition. There had been a savage ferocity in that Marquis's eye, and there was habitually a heavy sternness about Melmotte, which together made him resist the invitation. "I don't think I have a right to do that," he said, "because it is Mr. Melmotte's own house."

Sir Felix did not quite like the proposition. There had been a savage ferocity in that Marquis's eye, and a sternness about Melmotte, which made him cautious. "I don't think I have a right to do that," he said, "because it is Mr. Melmotte's own house."


"I wouldn't mind," said Marie. "I told papa to-day that I wouldn't marry Lord Nidderdale."

"I wouldn't mind," said Marie. "I told papa today that I wouldn't marry Lord Nidderdale."


"He laughed at me. He manages people till he thinks that everybody must do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not do it. I have quite made up my mind. Felix, if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us. I will not be ashamed to tell everybody that I love you."

"He laughed at me. He thinks that everybody must do exactly what he tells them. He may kill me, but I will not do it. Felix, if you will be true to me, nothing shall separate us. I will not be ashamed to tell everybody that I love you."


Madame Melmotte had now thrown herself into a chair and was sighing. Sir Felix stood on the rug with his arm round Marie's waist, listening to her protestations, but saying little in answer to them,--when, suddenly, a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs. "C'est lui," screamed Madame Melmotte, bustling up from her seat and hurrying out of the room by a side door. The two lovers were alone for one moment, during which Marie lifted up her face, and Sir Felix kissed her lips. "Now be brave," she said, escaping from his arm, "and I'll be brave." Mr. Melmotte looked round the room as he entered. "Where are the others?" he asked.

Madame Melmotte had thrown herself into a chair, sighing. Sir Felix stood with his arm round Marie's waist, listening - when a heavy step was heard ascending the stairs.
"C'est lui," screamed Madame Melmotte, bustling up and hurrying out of the room by a side door. The two lovers were alone for one moment, during which Marie lifted up her face, and Sir Felix kissed her lips.
"Now be brave," she said, escaping from his arm, "and I'll be brave."
Mr. Melmotte looked round the room as he entered. "Where are the others?" he asked.


"Mamma has gone away, and Miss Longestaffe went before mamma."


"Sir Felix, it is well that I should tell you that my daughter is engaged to marry Lord Nidderdale."

"Sir Felix, I must tell you that my daughter is engaged to marry Lord Nidderdale."


"Sir Felix, I am not engaged--to--marry Lord Nidderdale," said Marie. "It's no good, papa. I won't do it. If you chop me to pieces, I won't do it."

"Sir Felix, I am not engaged to marry Lord Nidderdale," said Marie. "It's no good, papa. I won't do it, if you chop me to pieces."


"She will marry Lord Nidderdale," continued Mr. Melmotte, addressing himself to Sir Felix. "As that is arranged, you will perhaps think it better to leave us. I shall be happy to renew my acquaintance with you as soon as the fact is recognised;--or happy to see you in the city at any time."

"She will marry Lord Nidderdale," continued Mr. Melmotte, addressing Sir Felix. "As that is arranged, you will perhaps think it better to leave us. I shall be happy to see you in the city at any time."


"It is not pooh. He is. I will never have any other. I hate Lord Nidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to look at him. Sir Felix is as good a gentleman as he is. If you loved me, papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life."

"It is not pooh. I will never have any other. I hate Lord Nidderdale; and as for that dreadful old man, I could not bear to look at him. Sir Felix is as good a gentleman as he is. If you loved me, papa, you would not want to make me unhappy all my life."


Her father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised, and she clung only the closer to her lover's arm. At this moment Sir Felix did not know what he might best do, but he thoroughly wished himself out in the square. "Jade!" said Melmotte, "get to your room."

Her father walked up to her rapidly with his hand raised, and she clung closer to her lover's arm. Sir Felix wished himself out in the square.
"Jade!" said Melmotte, "go to your room."


"Of course I will go to bed, if you tell me, papa."


"I do tell you. How dare you take hold of him in that way before me! Have you no idea of disgrace?"

"I do tell you. How dare you take hold of him in that disgraceful way!"


"I am not disgraced. It is not more disgraceful to love him than that other man. Oh, papa, don't. You hurt me. I am going." He took her by the arm and dragged her to the door, and then thrust her out.

"It is not more disgraceful to love him than that other man. Oh, papa, don't. You hurt me. I am going." He took her by the arm and dragged her to the door, and then thrust her out.


"I am very sorry, Mr. Melmotte," said Sir Felix, "to have had a hand in causing this disturbance."


"Go away, and don't come back any more;--that's all. You can't both marry her. All you have got to understand is this. I'm not the man to give my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent. By the God that hears me, Sir Felix, she shall not have one shilling. But look you,--if you'll give this up, I shall be proud to co-operate with you in anything you may wish to have done in the city."

"Go away, and don't come back any more; that's all. Just understand this. I won't give my daughter a single shilling if she marries against my consent. By God, Sir Felix, she shall not have one shilling. But look you - if you'll give this up, I shall be proud to co-operate with you in anything you may wish to have done in the city."


After this Sir Felix left the room, went down the stairs, had the door opened for him, and was ushered into the square. But as he went through the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his hand,--which he read as soon as he found himself under a gas lamp. It was dated that morning, and had therefore no reference to the fray which had just taken place. It ran as follows:--

Sir Felix went downstairs and was ushered out into the square. But as he went through the hall a woman managed to shove a note into his hand.
It was dated that morning, and ran as follows:


I hope you will come to-night. There is something I cannot tell you then, but you ought to know it. When we were in France papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on me. I don't know how much, but I suppose it was enough to live on if other things went wrong. He never talked to me about it, but I know it was done. And it hasn't been undone, and can't be without my leave. He is very angry about you this morning, for I told him I would never give you up. He says he won't give me anything if I marry without his leave. But I am sure he cannot take it away. I tell you, because I think I ought to tell you everything.

There is something you ought to know. When we were in France papa thought it wise to settle a lot of money on me. I don't know how much, but I suppose it was enough to live on if other things went wrong. He never talked to me about it, but I know it was done, and it can't be undone without my leave. He says he won't give me anything if I marry without his leave. But I am sure he cannot take it away.


Sir Felix as he read this could not but think that he had become engaged to a very enterprising young lady. It was evident that she did not care to what extent she braved her father on behalf of her lover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him. But Sir Felix saw no reason why he should not take advantage of the money made over to the girl's name, if he could lay his hands on it. He did not know much of such transactions, but he knew more than Marie Melmotte, and could understand that a man in Melmotte's position should want to secure a portion of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on his daughter. Whether having so settled it, he could again resume it without the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know. Marie, who had no doubt been regarded as an absolutely passive instrument when the thing was done, was now quite alive to the benefit which she might possibly derive from it. Her proposition, put into plain English, amounted to this: "Take me and marry me without my father's consent,--and then you and I together can rob my father of the money which, for his own purposes, he has settled upon me." He had looked upon the lady of his choice as a poor weak thing, without any special character of her own, who was made worthy of consideration only by the fact that she was a rich man's daughter; but now she began to loom before his eyes as something bigger than that. She had had a will of her own when the mother had none. She had not been afraid of her brutal father when he, Sir Felix, had trembled before him. She had offered to be beaten, and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover. There could be no doubt about her running away if she were asked.

Sir Felix felt that he had become engaged to a very enterprising young lady. She braved her father on behalf of her lover, and now she coolly proposed to rob him. But Sir Felix saw no reason why he should not take advantage of the money made over to the girl's name.
He could understand that a man in Melmotte's position should want to secure some of his fortune against accidents, by settling it on his daughter. Whether having so settled it, he could take it back without the daughter's assent, Sir Felix did not know. Marie had no doubt been regarded as a passive instrument when the thing was done, but she was now aware of the benefit which she might derive from it. Her proposition amounted to this: "Marry me without my father's consent, and together we can rob my father of the money which, for his own purposes, he has settled upon me."
He had looked upon her as a poor weak thing; but now she began to loom before his eyes as something bigger than that. She had a will of her own. She had not been afraid of her brutal father when he, Sir Felix, had trembled. She had offered to be beaten, and killed, and chopped to pieces on behalf of her lover. There could be no doubt she would run away if she were asked.


It seemed to him that within the last month he had gained a great deal of experience, and that things which heretofore had been troublesome to him, or difficult, or perhaps impossible, were now coming easily within his reach. He had won two or three thousand pounds at cards, whereas invariable loss had been the result of the small play in which he had before indulged. He had been set to marry this heiress, having at first no great liking for the attempt, because of its difficulties and the small amount of hope which it offered him. The girl was already willing and anxious to jump into his arms. Then he had detected a man cheating at cards,--an extent of iniquity that was awful to him before he had seen it,--and was already beginning to think that there was not very much in that. If there was not much in it, if such a man as Miles Grendall could cheat at cards and be brought to no punishment, why should not he try it? It was a rapid way of winning, no doubt. He remembered that on one or two occasions he had asked his adversary to cut the cards a second time at whist, because he had observed that there was no honour at the bottom. No feeling of honesty had interfered with him. The little trick had hardly been premeditated, but when successful without detection had not troubled his conscience. Now it seemed to him that much more than that might be done without detection. But nothing had opened his eyes to the ways of the world so widely as the sweet little lover-like proposition made by Miss Melmotte for robbing her father. It certainly recommended the girl to him. She had been able at an early age, amidst the circumstances of a very secluded life, to throw off from her altogether those scruples of honesty, those bugbears of the world, which are apt to prevent great enterprises in the minds of men.

It seemed to him that things which had been troublesome or difficult were now coming easily within his reach. He had won two or three thousand pounds at cards. He had been set to marry this heiress, and the girl was willing and anxious to jump into his arms. If such a man as Miles Grendall could cheat at cards and be brought to no punishment, it seemed to him that much more than that might be done without detection.
But nothing had opened his eyes to the ways of the world so widely as the sweet little lover-like proposition made by Miss Melmotte for robbing her father. It certainly recommended the girl to him. She had been able to throw off altogether those scruples of honesty which are apt to prevent great enterprises.


What should he do next? This sum of money of which Marie wrote so easily was probably large. It would not have been worth the while of such a man as Mr. Melmotte to make a trifling provision of this nature. It could hardly be less than 50,000,--might probably be very much more. But this was certain to him,--that if he and Marie were to claim this money as man and wife, there could then be no hope of further liberality. It was not probable that such a man as Mr. Melmotte would forgive even an only child such an offence as that. Even if it were obtained, 50,000 would not be very much. And Melmotte might probably have means, even if the robbery were duly perpetrated, of making the possession of the money very uncomfortable. These were deep waters into which Sir Felix was preparing to plunge; and he did not feel himself to be altogether comfortable, although he liked the deep waters.

What should he do next? This sum of money of which Marie wrote was probably large. It would not have been worth her father's while to make a provision of less than 50,000 - probably very much more. But this was certain: if he and Marie were to marry, there could then be no hope of more money beyond that. In that case, 50,000 would not be very much. And Melmotte would probably have means of making the possession of the money very uncomfortable. These were deep waters into which Sir Felix was preparing to plunge; and he was uneasy.


Lady Carbury's desire for a union between Roger and her daughter was greatly increased by her solicitude in respect to her son. Since Roger's offer had first been made, Felix had gone on from bad to worse, till his condition had become one of hopeless embarrassment. If her daughter could but be settled in the world, Lady Carbury said to herself, she could then devote herself to the interests of her son. She had no very clear idea of what that devotion would be. But she did know that she had paid so much money for him, and would have so much more extracted from her, that it might well come to pass that she would be unable to keep a home for her daughter. In all these troubles she constantly appealed to Roger Carbury for advice,--which, however, she never followed. He recommended her to give up her house in town, to find a home for her daughter elsewhere, and also for Felix if he would consent to follow her. Should he not so consent, then let the young man bear the brunt of his own misdoings. Doubtless, when he could no longer get bread in London he would find her out. Roger was always severe when he spoke of the baronet,--or seemed to Lady Carbury to be severe.

Lady Carbury's desire for a union between Roger and her daughter was greatly increased by her anxiety about her son. If her daughter could only be settled in the world, Lady Carbury thought, she could devote herself to her son's interests. She had no very clear idea of what that devotion would be. But she knew that she had paid so much money for him, and would have to pay so much more, that she might be unable to keep a home for her daughter.
In these troubles she constantly appealed to Roger Carbury for advice - which, however, she never followed. He recommended her to give up her house in town, and find a home for her daughter and Felix elsewhere. If Felix would not follow her, then let him bear the brunt of his own misdoings. When he had no more money he would seek her out. Lady Carbury thought Roger was always severe when he spoke of the baronet.


But, in truth, she did not ask for advice in order that she might follow it. She had plans in her head with which she knew that Roger would not sympathise. She still thought that Sir Felix might bloom and burst out into grandeur, wealth, and fashion, as the husband of a great heiress, and in spite of her son's vices, was proud of him in that anticipation. When he succeeded in obtaining from her money, as in the case of that 20,--when, with brazen-faced indifference to her remonstrances, he started off to his club at two in the morning, when with impudent drollery he almost boasted of the hopelessness of his debts, a sickness of heart would come upon her, and she would weep hysterically, and lie the whole night without sleeping. But could he marry Miss Melmotte, and thus conquer all his troubles by means of his own personal beauty,--then she would be proud of all that had passed. With such a condition of mind Roger Carbury could have no sympathy. To him it seemed that a gentleman was disgraced who owed money to a tradesman which he could not pay. And Lady Carbury's heart was high with other hopes,--in spite of her hysterics and her fears. The "Criminal Queens" might be a great literary success. She almost thought that it would be a success. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter, the publishers, were civil to her. Mr. Broune had promised. Mr. Booker had said that he would see what could be done. She had gathered from Mr. Alf's caustic and cautious words that the book would be noticed in the "Evening Pulpit." No;--she would not take dear Roger's advice as to leaving London. But she would continue to ask Roger's advice. Men like to have their advice asked. And, if possible, she would arrange the marriage. What country retirement could be so suitable for a Lady Carbury when she wished to retire for awhile,--as Carbury Manor, the seat of her own daughter? And then her mind would fly away into regions of bliss. If only by the end of this season Henrietta could be engaged to her cousin, Felix be the husband of the richest bride in Europe, and she be the acknowledged author of the cleverest book of the year, what a Paradise of triumph might still be open to her after all her troubles! Then the sanguine nature of the woman would bear her up almost to exultation, and for an hour she would be happy, in spite of everything.

But, in truth, she did not ask for advice in order that she might follow it. She had plans with which she knew that Roger would not sympathise. She still thought that Sir Felix might bloom and burst out into grandeur, wealth, and fashion, as the husband of a great heiress. When he got money from her - when, with brazen-faced indifference to her remonstrances, he started off to his club at two in the morning - when he almost boasted of the hopelessness of his debts, a sickness of heart would come upon her, and she would weep hysterically, and lie the whole night without sleeping.
But if he could marry Miss Melmotte, then she would be proud of him. With such a view Roger Carbury could have no sympathy. He thought that a gentleman was disgraced by owing money to a tradesman. And Lady Carbury's heart was high with other hopes: the "Criminal Queens" might be a great literary success. Mr. Broune had promised. Mr. Booker had said that he would see what could be done. She had gathered from Mr. Alf's cautious words that the book would be reviewed in the Evening Pulpit.
No; she would not leave London. But she would continue to ask Roger's advice. Men like to have their advice asked. And, if possible, she would arrange the marriage. Her mind would fly away into regions of bliss. If only Henrietta could be engaged to her cousin, Felix marry the richest bride in Europe, and she be the author of the cleverest book of the year, what a Paradise of triumph might be open to her after all her troubles! Thinking this, for an hour she would be happy, in spite of everything.


A few days after the ball Roger Carbury was up in town, and was closeted with her in her back drawing-room. The declared cause of his coming was the condition of the baronet's affairs and the indispensable necessity,--so Roger thought,--of taking some steps by which at any rate the young man's present expenses might be brought to an end. It was horrible to him that a man who had not a shilling in the world or any prospect of a shilling, who had nothing and never thought of earning anything, should have hunters! He was very much in earnest about it, and quite prepared to speak his mind to the young man himself,--if he could get hold of him. "Where is he now, Lady Carbury;--at this moment?"

A few days after the ball Roger Carbury was in town, and was with her in the back drawing-room. He had come because of the condition of the baronet's affairs and the necessity - so Roger thought - of taking steps to curtail the young man's expenses. It was horrible to him that a penniless man should have horses to hunt with! He was quite prepared to speak his mind to Felix himself, if he could get hold of him.
"Where is he now, Lady Carbury?"


"I think he's out with the Baron." Being "out with the Baron" meant that the young man was hunting with the stag hounds some forty miles away from London.

"I think he's out with the Baron." This meant that he was hunting some forty miles from London.


"How does he manage it? Whose horses does he ride? Who pays for them?"


"Don't be angry with me, Roger. What can I do to prevent it?"

"Don't be angry with me, Roger. What can I do?"


"I think you should refuse to have anything to do with him while he continues in such courses."


"Yes;--exactly. But what is to be the end of it? Is he to be allowed to ruin you, and Hetta? It can't go on long."

Is he to be allowed to ruin you and Hetta? It can't go on."


"I think he is throwing you over. And then it is so thoroughly dishonest,--so ungentlemanlike! I don't understand how it goes on from day to day. I suppose you don't supply him with ready money."

"I think he is throwing you over. And it is so thoroughly dishonest - so ungentlemanlike! I don't understand how it goes on. I suppose you don't supply him with money."


Roger frowned angrily. "I can understand that you should provide him with bed and food, but not that you should pander to his vices by giving him money." This was very plain speaking, and Lady Carbury winced under it. "The kind of life that he is leading requires a large income of itself. I understand the thing, and know that with all I have in the world I could not do it myself."

Roger frowned. "I can understand that you should provide him with bed and food, but not that you should pander to his vices by giving him money." Lady Carbury winced. "His kind of life needs a large income. I could not afford it myself."


"I am older of course,--very much older. But he is not so young that he should not begin to comprehend. Has he any money beyond what you give him?"

"I am older, of course. But he is old enough to understand it. Has he any money beyond what you give him?"


Then Lady Carbury revealed certain suspicions which she had begun to entertain during the last day or two. "I think he has been playing."

Then Lady Carbury revealed her suspicions. "I think he has been playing."


"That is the way to lose money,--not to get it," said Roger.

"That is the way to lose money, not to get it," said Roger.


"They who win are the sharpers. They who lose are the dupes. I would sooner that he were a fool than a knave."

"They who win are the sharpers. They who lose are the dupes. I would rather he were a fool than a knave."


"You say he plays. How would he pay, were he to lose?"


"I know nothing about it. I don't even know that he does play; but I have reason to think that during the last week he has had money at his command. Indeed I have seen it. He comes home at all manner of hours and sleeps late. Yesterday I went into his room about ten and did not wake him. There were notes and gold lying on his table;--ever so much."

"I don't even know that he does play; but I think that during the last week he has had money. He comes home at all hours and sleeps late. Yesterday I went into his room and there were notes and gold lying on his table - ever so much."


"When you tell me that you are absolutely in want of money to pay your own bills, and that he has not hesitated to take yours from you! Why does he not repay you what he has borrowed?"

"When you tell me that you need money to pay your bills, and that he has taken yours! Why does he not repay you what he has borrowed?"


"Ah, indeed;--why not? He ought to if he has it. And there were papers there;--I. O. U.'s, signed by other men."

"Ah, indeed, he ought to. And there were papers there; I.O.U.s, signed by other men.


"I saw as much as that. It is not that I am curious, but one does feel about one's own son. I think he has bought another horse. A groom came here and said something about it to the servants."

And I think he has bought another horse."


"If you could only induce him to stop the gambling! Of course it is very bad whether he wins or loses,--though I am sure that Felix would do nothing unfair. Nobody ever said that of him. If he has won money, it would be a great comfort if he would let me have some of it,--for, to tell the truth, I hardly know how to turn. I am sure nobody can say that I spend it on myself."

"If you could only induce him to stop gambling! If he has won money, it would be a great comfort if he would let me have some of it - for, to tell the truth, I hardly know where to turn."


Then Roger again repeated his advice. There could be no use in attempting to keep up the present kind of life in Welbeck Street. Welbeck Street might be very well without a penniless spendthrift such as Sir Felix, but must be ruinous under the present conditions. If Lady Carbury felt, as no doubt she did feel, bound to afford a home to her ruined son in spite of all his wickedness and folly, that home should be found far away from London. If he chose to remain in London, let him do so on his own resources. The young man should make up his mind to do something for himself. A career might possibly be opened for him in India. "If he be a man he would sooner break stones than live on you," said Roger. Yes, he would see his cousin to-morrow and speak to him;--that is if he could possibly find him. "Young men who gamble all night, and hunt all day are not easily found." But he would come at twelve as Felix generally breakfasted at that hour. Then he gave an assurance to Lady Carbury which to her was not the least comfortable part of the interview. In the event of her son not giving her the money which she at once required he, Roger, would lend her a hundred pounds till her half year's income should be due. After that his voice changed altogether, as he asked a question on another subject, "Can I see Henrietta to-morrow?"

Then Roger repeated his advice. If Lady Carbury felt bound to offer a home to her ruined son in spite of all his folly, that home should be far away from London. If he chose to remain in London, let him do so on his own resources.
"If he is a man he would sooner break stones than live on you," said Roger. He would see his cousin tomorrow and speak to him. He would come at twelve, when Felix generally breakfasted. Then he assured Lady Carbury that if her son did not give her the money she needed, he, Roger, would lend her a hundred pounds.
After that his voice changed, as he asked, "Can I see Henrietta tomorrow?"


"Certainly;--why not? She is at home now, I think."


"I will wait till to-morrow,--when I call to see Felix. I should like her to know that I am coming. Paul Montague was in town the other day. He was here, I suppose?"

"I should like her to know that I am coming. Paul Montague was in town the other day. He was here, I suppose?"


"He was at the Melmottes' ball. Felix got a card for him;--and we were there. Has he gone down to Carbury?"

And he was at the Melmottes' ball. Felix got a card for him. Has he gone down to Carbury?"


"No;--not to Carbury. I think he had some business about his partners at Liverpool. There is another case of a young man without anything to do. Not that Paul is at all like Sir Felix." This he was induced to say by the spirit of honesty which was always strong within him.

"No, not to Carbury. I think he had some business about his partners at Liverpool. He is another young man without anything to do. Not that Paul is at all like Sir Felix."


"Don't be too hard upon poor Felix," said Lady Carbury. Roger, as he took his leave, thought that it would be impossible to be too hard upon Sir Felix Carbury.

"Don't be too hard upon poor Felix," said Lady Carbury. Roger, as he took his leave, thought that it would be impossible to be too hard upon Sir Felix.


The next morning Lady Carbury was in her son's bedroom before he was up, and with incredible weakness told him that his cousin Roger was coming to lecture him. "What the Devil's the use of it?" said Felix from beneath the bedclothes.


"If you speak to me in that way, Felix, I must leave the room."


"But what is the use of his coming to me? I know what he has got to say just as if it were said. It's all very well preaching sermons to good people, but nothing ever was got by preaching to people who ain't good."

"But what is the use of his coming to me? I know what he's going to say. Nothing was ever got by preaching to people who ain't good."


"I shall do very well, mother, if that fellow will leave me alone. I can play my hand better than he can play it for me. If you'll go now I'll get up." She had intended to ask him for some of the money which she believed he still possessed, but her courage failed her. If she asked for his money, and took it, she would in some fashion recognise and tacitly approve his gambling. It was not yet eleven, and it was early for him to leave his bed; but he had resolved that he would get out of the house before that horrible bore should be upon him with his sermon. To do this he must be energetic. He was actually eating his breakfast at half-past eleven, and had already contrived in his mind how he would turn the wrong way as soon as he got into the street,--towards Marylebone Road, by which route Roger would certainly not come. He left the house at ten minutes before twelve, cunningly turned away, dodging round by the first corner,--and just as he had turned it encountered his cousin. Roger, anxious in regard to his errand, with time at his command, had come before the hour appointed and had strolled about, thinking not of Felix but of Felix's sister. The baronet felt that he had been caught,--caught unfairly, but by no means abandoned all hope of escape. "I was going to your mother's house on purpose to see you," said Roger.

"I shall do very well, mother, if that fellow will leave me alone. If you'll go now I'll get up." She had intended to ask him for some money, but her courage failed her. To ask for his money would be to recognise and even approve his gambling.
It was not yet eleven; but Felix resolved to get out of the house before that horrible bore should come with his sermon. He ate his breakfast at half-past eleven, planning how he would go out towards Marylebone Road, by which route Roger would not come. He left the house at ten to twelve, cunningly dodging round the first corner - and as he turned it, met his cousin. Roger had come early and strolled about, thinking of Henrietta. Felix felt that he had been caught unfairly.
"I was going to your mother's house to see you," said Roger.


"Were you indeed? I am so sorry. I have an engagement out here with a fellow which I must keep. I could meet you at any other time, you know."

"Were you? I am so sorry. I have an engagement with a fellow."


"You can come back for ten minutes," said Roger, taking him by the arm.


"Well;--not conveniently at this moment."


"You must manage it. I am here at your mother's request, and can't afford to remain in town day after day looking for you. I go down to Carbury this afternoon. Your friend can wait. Come along." His firmness was too much for Felix, who lacked the courage to shake his cousin off violently, and to go his way. But as he returned he fortified himself with the remembrance of all the money in his pocket,--for he still had his winnings,--remembered too certain sweet words which had passed between him and Marie Melmotte since the ball, and resolved that he would not be "sat upon" by Roger Carbury. The time was coming,--he might almost say that the time had come,--in which he might defy Roger Carbury. Nevertheless, he dreaded the words which were now to be spoken to him with a craven fear.

"I go down to Carbury this afternoon. Your friend can wait. Come along."
His firmness was too much for Felix, who lacked the courage to shake his cousin off. But he fortified himself with the remembrance of the money in his pocket. He remembered too certain sweet words which had passed between him and Marie Melmotte since the ball, and resolved that he would not be "sat upon" by Roger Carbury. The time was coming when he might defy Roger Carbury. Nevertheless, he dreaded the coming words.


"Your mother tells me," said Roger, "that you still keep hunters."


"I don't know what she calls hunters. I have one that I didn't part with when the others went."

"I have one that I kept when the others went."


"Well;--if you want to be exact, I have a hack as well as the horse I ride."

"Well - to be exact, I have a hack as well."


"Who told you that? No; I haven't. At least there is one staying at some stables which has been sent for me to look at."


"At any rate I shall not ask you to pay for them."


"No;--you would be afraid to do that. But you have no scruple in asking your mother, though you should force her to come to me or to other friends for assistance. You have squandered every shilling of your own, and now you are ruining her."

"No, you would be afraid to do that. But you have no scruple in asking your mother. You have squandered every shilling of your own, and now you are ruining her."


"That isn't true. I have money of my own."


"This is all very well, Roger; but I don't know that you have any right to ask me these questions. I have money. If I buy a horse I can pay for it. If I keep one or two I can pay for them. Of course I owe a lot of money, but other people owe me money too. I'm all right, and you needn't frighten yourself."

"This is all very well, Roger; but I don't know that you have any right to ask me these questions. I have money. If I buy a horse I can pay for it. Of course I owe a lot of money, but other people owe me money too. I'm all right."