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

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


The ball was opened by a quadrille in which Lord Buntingford, the eldest son of the Duchess, stood up with Marie. Various arrangements had been made, and this among them. We may say that it had been part of a bargain. Lord Buntingford had objected mildly, being a young man devoted to business, fond of his own order, rather shy, and not given to dancing. But he had allowed his mother to prevail. "Of course they are vulgar," the Duchess had said,--"so much so as to be no longer distasteful because of the absurdity of the thing. I dare say he hasn't been very honest. When men make so much money, I don't know how they can have been honest. Of course it's done for a purpose. It's all very well saying that it isn't right, but what are we to do about Alfred's children? Miles is to have 500 a-year. And then he is always about the house. And between you and me they have got up those bills of Alfred's, and have said they can lie in their safe till it suits your uncle to pay them."

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


"They will lie there a long time," said Lord Buntingford.


"Of course they expect something in return; do dance with the girl once." Lord Buntingford disapproved--mildly, and did as his mother asked him.

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


The affair went off very well. There were three or four card-tables in one of the lower rooms, and at one of them sat Lord Alfred Grendall and Mr. Melmotte, with two or three other players, cutting in and out at the end of each rubber. Playing whist was Lord Alfred's only accomplishment, and almost the only occupation of his life. He began it daily at his club at three o'clock, and continued playing till two in the morning with an interval of a couple of hours for his dinner. This he did during ten months of the year, and during the other two he frequented some watering-place at which whist prevailed. He did not gamble, never playing for more than the club stakes and bets. He gave to the matter his whole mind, and must have excelled those who were generally opposed to him. But so obdurate was fortune to Lord Alfred that he could not make money even of whist. Melmotte was very anxious to get into Lord Alfred's club,--The Peripatetics. It was pleasant to see the grace with which he lost his money, and the sweet intimacy with which he called his lordship Alfred. Lord Alfred had a remnant of feeling left, and would have liked to kick him. Though Melmotte was by far the bigger man, and was also the younger, Lord Alfred would not have lacked the pluck to kick him. Lord Alfred, in spite of his habitual idleness and vapid uselessness, had still left about him a dash of vigour, and sometimes thought that he would kick Melmotte and have done with it. But there were his poor boys, and those bills in Melmotte's safe. And then Melmotte lost his points so regularly, and paid his bets with such absolute good humour! "Come and have a glass of champagne, Alfred," Melmotte said, as the two cut out together. Lord Alfred liked champagne, and followed his host; but as he went he almost made up his mind that on some future day he would kick the man.

The ball went very well. There were three or four card-tables in one of the rooms, and at one of them sat Lord Alfred Grendall and Mr. Melmotte, with two or three other players. Playing whist was Lord Alfred's only accomplishment, and almost the only occupation of his life. He played it daily at his club for ten months of the year, and during the other two he frequented some watering-place at which whist prevailed. He did not gamble, never playing for more than the club stakes, but he never made any money.
Melmotte was very anxious to get into Lord Alfred's club, The Peripatetics. It was pleasant to see the grace with which he lost his money, and the sweet intimacy with which he called his lordship Alfred. Though Melmotte was by far the bigger man, Lord Alfred would have liked to kick him. Lord Alfred, in spite of his habitual idleness and uselessness, had still a dash of vigour, and sometimes thought that he would kick Melmotte and have done with it. But there were his poor boys, and those bills in Melmotte's safe. And Melmotte paid his bets with such absolute good humour!
"Come and have a glass of champagne, Alfred," Melmotte said. Lord Alfred liked champagne, and followed his host; but he almost made up his mind that on some future day he would kick the man.


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

Late in the evening Marie Melmotte was waltzing with Felix Carbury, and Henrietta Carbury was standing by, talking to a Mr. Paul Montague. Lady Carbury was also there. She did not care for balls, nor for the Melmottes; but Felix had suggested that they had better accept the invitation. Lady Carbury was very gracious to Madame Melmotte for two minutes, and then slid into a chair expecting nothing but misery for the evening. However, she was a woman who could do her duty and endure without complaint.


"It is the first great ball I ever was at in London," said Hetta Carbury to Paul Montague.


"Not at all. How should I like it? I know nobody here. I don't understand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing."

"Not at all. I know nobody here. I don't understand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing."


"Just that; I suppose when they are used to it they get introduced backwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast as they like. If you would wish to dance why won't you dance with me?"

"If you wish to dance why won't you dance with me?"


"I have danced with you,--twice already."


"Is there any law against dancing three times?"


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

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


Sir Felix and Marie Melmotte had been spinning round and round throughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the music and the movement. To give Felix Carbury what little praise might be his due, it is necessary to say that he did not lack physical activity. He would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly, with an animation that made him happy for the moment. It was an affair not of thought or calculation, but of physical organisation. And Marie Melmotte had been thoroughly happy. She loved dancing with all her heart if she could only dance in a manner pleasant to herself. She had been warned especially as to some men,--that she should not dance with them. She had been almost thrown into Lord Nidderdale's arms, and had been prepared to take him at her father's bidding. But she had never had the slightest pleasure in his society, and had only not been wretched because she had not as yet recognised that she had an identity of her own in the disposition of which she herself should have a voice. She certainly had never cared to dance with Lord Nidderdale. Lord Grasslough she had absolutely hated, though at first she had hardly dared to say so. One or two others had been obnoxious to her in different ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on, out of her way. There was no one at the present moment whom she had been commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made. But she did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury.

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


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

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


"How well you dance," said Sir Felix, as soon as he had breath for speaking.


"Do I?" She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a little prettiness to her speech. "I was never told so. But nobody ever told me anything about myself."


"I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the beginning to the end."


"I would find out. I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tell you what you would like best in all the world."

"I think I could make some good guesses. I'll tell you what you would like best in all the world."


"Somebody that liked you best in all the world."


"How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?"


"That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked me better than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she said so. I should have to find it out."


"I shouldn't believe him a bit, and I should not care to find out. But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself."

"I shouldn't believe him, and I should not care to find out. But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself."


"I mean a girl whom I could love,--oh, ten times better than myself."

"I mean a girl whom I could love - oh, ten times better than myself."


"Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix," said Miss Melmotte.


"I wonder whether that will come to anything?" said Paul Montague to Miss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been watching the approaches to love-making which the baronet was opening.

"I wonder whether that will come to anything?" said Paul Montague to Miss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been watching this.


"You mean Felix and Miss Melmotte. I hate to think of such things, Mr. Montague."


"It would be a magnificent chance for him."


"To marry a girl, the daughter of vulgar people, just because she will have a great deal of money? He can't care for her really,--because she is rich."

"To marry the daughter of vulgar people, just because she will have money?" said Hetta. "He can't care for her really."


"But he wants money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is no other condition of things under which Felix can face the world, but by being the husband of an heiress."

"But he needs money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is no other solution for Felix than to marry an heiress."


"But isn't it true? He has beggared himself."


"And he will beggar you and your mother."


"Others do though." As he said this he did not look at her, but spoke through his teeth, as if he were angry both with himself and her.

"Others do, though." Paul spoke through his teeth, as if he were angry.


"I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix."


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

"I don't speak harshly of him, Miss Carbury. I haven't said that it was his own fault. He seems to be one of those who have been born to spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, I think it would be a good thing if he were to marry her."


Lady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplaining solitude under a bust, when she was delighted by the appearance of Mr. Ferdinand Alf. "You here?" she said.

Lady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplaining solitude, when she was delighted by the appearance of Mr. Ferdinand Alf.
"You here?" she said.


"Why not? Melmotte and I are brother adventurers."


"I should have thought you would find so little here to amuse you."

"I should have thought you would find little here to amuse you."


"I have found you; and, in addition to that, duchesses and their daughters without number. They expect Prince George!"

"I have found you; and, in addition, duchesses and their daughters without number. They expect Prince George!


"And Legge Wilson from the India Office is here already. I spoke to him in some jewelled bower as I made my way here, not five minutes since. It's quite a success. Don't you think it very nice, Lady Carbury?"


"I don't know whether you are joking or in earnest."

"I don't know whether you are joking or not."


"I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all they want in return is a little countenance."

"I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all they want in return is a little attention."


"Ah;--but the countenance of the 'Evening Pulpit.' Do you mean to give them that?"

"Ah; the attention of the Evening Pulpit. Do you mean to give them that?"


"Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names and to record ladies' dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our host himself that he should be kept out of the newspapers."

"Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names and ladies' dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our host that he should be kept out of the newspapers."


"Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr. Alf?" said the lady after a pause.


"We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here's the Prince. What will they do with him now they've caught him! Oh, they're going to make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!"

"We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here's the Prince. What will they do with him now they've caught him? Oh, they're going to make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!"


"Not at all. She's a nice little girl enough, and he'll have nothing to trouble him. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?"

"Not at all. She's a nice enough little girl. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?"


Poor thing indeed! The Prince was brought into the big room where Marie was still being talked to by Felix Carbury, and was at once made to understand that she was to stand up and dance with royalty. The introduction was managed in a very business-like manner. Miles Grendall first came in and found the female victim; the Duchess followed with the male victim. Madame Melmotte, who had been on her legs till she was ready to sink, waddled behind, but was not allowed to take any part in the affair. The band were playing a galop, but that was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. In two minutes Miles Grendall had made up a set. He stood up with his aunt, the Duchess, as vis-a-vis to Marie and the Prince, till, about the middle of the quadrille, Legge Wilson was found and made to take his place. Lord Buntingford had gone away; but then there were still present two daughters of the Duchess who were rapidly caught. Sir Felix Carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made to dance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with the other. There were four other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was intended that this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the "Evening Pulpit," in some less serious daily journal. A paid reporter was present in the house ready to rush off with the list as soon as the dance should be a realized fact. The Prince himself did not quite understand why he was there, but they who marshalled his life for him had so marshalled it for the present moment. He himself probably knew nothing about the lady's diamonds which had been rescued, or the considerable subscription to St. George's Hospital which had been extracted from Mr. Melmotte as a make-weight. Poor Marie felt as though the burden of the hour would be greater than she could bear, and looked as though she would have fled had flight been possible. But the trouble passed quickly, and was not really severe. The Prince said a word or two between each figure, and did not seem to expect a reply. He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the work of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for the moment inflicted with it. When the dance was over he was allowed to escape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drank in the presence of the hostess. Considerable skill was shown in keeping the presence of his royal guest a secret from the host himself till the Prince was gone. Melmotte would have desired to pour out that glass of wine with his own hands, to solace his tongue by Royal Highnesses, and would probably have been troublesome and disagreeable. Miles Grendall had understood all this and had managed the affair very well. "Bless my soul;--his Royal Highness come and gone!" exclaimed Melmotte. "You and my father were so fast at your whist that it was impossible to get you away," said Miles. Melmotte was not a fool, and understood it all;--understood not only that it had been thought better that he should not speak to the Prince, but also that it might be better that it should be so. He could not have everything at once. Miles Grendall was very useful to him, and he would not quarrel with Miles, at any rate as yet.

Poor thing indeed! The Prince was brought into the room where Marie was with Felix Carbury, and she was informed by Miles Grendall that she was to stand up and dance with royalty.
The band were playing a gallop, but that was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. In two minutes Miles Grendall had made up a set. He stood up with his aunt, the Duchess, opposite Marie and the Prince. Two daughters of the Duchess were present: Sir Felix Carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made to dance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with the other. There were four other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was intended that this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the Evening Pulpit, in some less serious journal. A paid reporter was ready to rush off with the list as soon as the dance began.
The Prince himself did not quite understand why he was there; he probably knew nothing about the lady's diamonds which had been rescued. Poor Marie looked as though she would have fled had flight been possible. But the trouble passed quickly. The Prince said a word or two, and did not seem to expect a reply. He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the work of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for the moment inflicted with it. When the dance was over he was allowed to escape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drunk with the hostess.
The presence of his royal guest was kept secret from the host himself till the Prince was gone. Melmotte would have desired to pour out that glass of wine with his own hands, and would probably have been troublesome and disagreeable. Miles Grendall had understood all this and had managed the affair very well.
"Bless my soul - his Royal Highness come and gone!" exclaimed Melmotte.
"You and my father were so absorbed at your whist that it was impossible to get you away," said Miles.
Melmotte was not a fool, and understood that it had been thought better that he should not speak to the Prince, but also that it might be better that it should be so. He could not have everything at once. Miles Grendall was very useful to him, and he would not quarrel with him just yet.


[Illustration: The Duchess followed with the male victim.]


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


Lord Alfred had taken sundry glasses of champagne, and for a moment forgot the bills in the safe, and the good things which his boys were receiving. "Damn that kind of nonsense," he said. "Call people by their proper names." Then he left the house without a further word to the master of it. That night before they went to sleep Melmotte required from his weary wife an account of the ball, and especially of Marie's conduct. "Marie," Madame Melmotte said, "had behaved well, but had certainly preferred 'Sir Carbury' to any other of the young men." Hitherto Mr. Melmotte had heard very little of "Sir Carbury," except that he was a baronet. Though his eyes and ears were always open, though he attended to everything, and was a man of sharp intelligence, he did not yet quite understand the bearing and sequence of English titles. He knew that he must get for his daughter either an eldest son, or one absolutely in possession himself. Sir Felix, he had learned, was only a baronet; but then he was in possession. He had discovered also that Sir Felix's son would in course of time also become Sir Felix. He was not therefore at the present moment disposed to give any positive orders as to his daughter's conduct to the young baronet. He did not, however, conceive that the young baronet had as yet addressed his girl in such words as Felix had in truth used when they parted. "You know who it is," he whispered, "likes you better than any one else in the world."

That night before they went to sleep Melmotte required from his weary wife an account of the ball, and of Marie's conduct.
"Marie," Madame Melmotte said, "behaved well, but certainly preferred 'Sir Carbury' to any other of the young men."
Hitherto Mr. Melmotte had heard very little of "Sir Carbury," except that he was a baronet. Though he was a man of sharp intelligence, he did not yet understand the bearing and sequence of English titles. He knew that he must get for his daughter either an eldest son, or one in possession of a title. Sir Felix was only a baronet; but his son would in course of time also become Sir Felix. Melmotte was not disposed to give any positive orders as to his daughter's conduct to the young baronet.
He did not, however, imagine that the young baronet had addressed his girl in the way Felix had when they parted.
"You know who it is," he whispered, "likes you better than anyone else in the world."


"I do," he said as he held her hand for a minute. He looked into her face and she thought it very sweet. He had studied the words as a lesson, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. He did it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a sweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could love.

"I do," he said as he held her hand for a minute. He looked into her face and she thought it very sweet. He had studied the words, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. He did it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a sweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could love.


Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at the Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him again. But when reflection came with the morning her misery was stronger than her wrath. What would life be to her now without her lover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she certainly had not intended to become nurse and assistant maid-of-all-work at a London lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, and the hard life, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming delight. A dance with Felix at the Music Hall, though it were three days distant from her, would so occupy her mind that she could wash and dress all the children without complaint. Mrs. Pipkin was forced to own to herself that Ruby did earn her bread. But when she had parted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meet again, things were very different with her. And perhaps she had been wrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not of course like to be told about marriage. If she gave him another chance, perhaps he would speak. At any rate she could not live without another dance. And so she wrote him a letter.

Ruby had run away from her lover in great dudgeon after the dance at the Music Hall, and had declared that she never wanted to see him again. But in the morning she was miserable. What would life be to her now without her lover? When she escaped from her grandfather's house she had not intended to become maid-of-all-work at a London lodging-house. The daily toil she could endure, as long as she was supported by the prospect of some coming delight - like a dance with Felix at the Music Hall.
But when she had parted with her lover almost on an understanding that they were never to meet again, things were very different. And perhaps she had been wrong. A gentleman like Sir Felix did not like to be told about marriage. If she gave him another chance, perhaps he would speak. At any rate she could not live without another dance. And so she wrote him a letter.


Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly bear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him. She underscored the expression of her regret if she had vexed him. She did not want to hurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the Music Hall. Would he be there next Saturday? Sir Felix sent her a very short reply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on the Tuesday. As at this time he proposed to leave London on the Wednesday on his way to New York, he was proposing to devote his very last night to the companionship of Ruby Ruggles.

Ruby was glib enough with her pen, though what she wrote will hardly bear repeating. She underscored all her loves to him, and her regret at vexing him. She did not want to hurry a gentleman. But she did want to have another dance at the Music Hall. Would he be there next Saturday?
Sir Felix sent her a very short reply to say that he would be at the Music Hall on Tuesday. As he planned to leave London on the Wednesday on his way to New York, he was proposing to devote his very last night to the companionship of Ruby Ruggles.


Mrs. Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. It is certainly a part of the new dispensation that young women shall send and receive letters without inspection. But since Roger Carbury's visit Mrs. Pipkin had watched the postman, and had also watched her niece. For nearly a week Ruby said not a word of going out at night. She took the children for an airing in a broken perambulator, nearly as far as Holloway, with exemplary care, and washed up the cups and saucers as though her mind was intent upon them. But Mrs. Pipkin's mind was intent on obeying Mr. Carbury's behests. She had already hinted something as to which Ruby had made no answer. It was her purpose to tell her and to swear to her most solemnly,--should she find her preparing herself to leave the house after six in the evening,--that she should be kept out the whole night, having a purpose equally clear in her own mind that she would break her oath should she be unsuccessful in her effort to keep Ruby at home. But on the Tuesday, when Ruby went up to her room to deck herself, a bright idea as to a better precaution struck Mrs. Pipkin's mind. Ruby had been careless,--had left her lover's scrap of a note in an old pocket when she went out with the children, and Mrs. Pipkin knew all about it. It was nine o'clock when Ruby went up-stairs,--and then Mrs. Pipkin locked both the front door and the area gate. Mrs. Hurtle had come home on the previous day. "You won't be wanting to go out to-night;--will you, Mrs. Hurtle?" said Mrs. Pipkin, knocking at her lodger's door. Mrs. Hurtle declared her purpose of remaining at home all the evening. "If you should hear words between me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am."

Mrs. Pipkin had never interfered with her niece's letters. But since Roger Carbury's visit she had watched the postman, and had also watched her niece. For nearly a week Ruby said not a word of going out at night. She took the children for an airing with exemplary care, and washed the cups and saucers diligently.
But Mrs. Pipkin was intent on obeying Mr. Carbury's requests. She decided to tell Ruby most solemnly, if she found her preparing to leave the house in the evening, that she should be kept out the whole night. On the Tuesday, when Ruby went up to her room to deck herself, she had been careless - she had left her lover's scrap of a note behind when she went out with the children, and Mrs. Pipkin knew all about it.
It was nine o'clock when Ruby went upstairs; and Mrs. Pipkin locked both the front door and the area gate. Mrs. Hurtle had come home on the previous day.
"You won't be wanting to go out tonight, will you, Mrs. Hurtle?" Mrs. Pipkin asked her. Mrs. Hurtle declared her intention of remaining at home all evening.
"If you should hear words between me and my niece, don't you mind, ma'am."


"I hope there's nothing wrong, Mrs. Pipkin?"


"She'll be wanting to go out, and I won't have it. It isn't right; is it, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays of doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's going to come next." Mrs. Pipkin must have feared downright rebellion when she thus took her lodger into her confidence.

"She'll be wanting to go out, and it isn't right; is it, ma'am? She's a good girl; but they've got such a way nowadays of doing just as they pleases, that one doesn't know what's coming next."


Ruby came down in her silk frock, as she had done before, and made her usual little speech. "I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a little time to-night. I've got the key, and I'll let myself in quite quiet."

Ruby came down in her silk frock, and made her usual speech. "I'm just going to step out, aunt, for a little time tonight. I've got the key, and I'll let myself in quiet."


"Indeed, Ruby, you won't," said Mrs. Pipkin.


"Won't let yourself in, if you go out. If you go out to-night you'll stay out. That's all about it. If you go out to-night you won't come back here any more. I won't have it, and it isn't right that I should. You're going after that young man that they tell me is the greatest scamp in all England."

"If you go out tonight you'll stay out. That's all. You won't come back here any more. I won't have it. You're going after that young man that they tell me is the greatest scamp in all England."


"Very well. No girl is going out any more at nights out of my house; so that's all about it. If you had told me you was going before, you needn't have gone up and bedizened yourself. For now it's all to take off again."

"Very well. No girl is going out any more at nights out of my house; so that's it. You'd better take your finery off again."


Ruby could hardly believe it. She had expected some opposition,--what she would have called a few words; but she had never imagined that her aunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. It seemed to her that she had bought the privilege of amusing herself by hard work. Nor did she believe now that her aunt would be as hard as her threat. "I've a right to go if I like," she said.

Ruby could hardly believe it. She had expected some opposition; but she had never imagined that her aunt would threaten to keep her in the streets all night. Nor did she believe her aunt would be as hard as her threat.
"I've a right to go if I like," she said.


"That's as you think. You haven't a right to come back again, any way."

"You haven't a right to come back again."


"Yes, I have. I've worked for you a deal harder than the girl down-stairs, and I don't want no wages. I've a right to go out, and a right to come back;--and go I shall."

"Yes, I have. I've worked hard for you, for no wages. I've a right to go out - and go I shall."


"You'll be no better than you should be, if you do."


"Am I to work my very nails off, and push that perambulator about all day till my legs won't carry me,--and then I ain't to go out, not once in a week?"

"Am I to work my very nails off, and then I ain't to go out, not once a week?"


"Not unless I know more about it, Ruby. I won't have you go and throw yourself into the gutter;--not while you're with me."

"I won't have you go and throw yourself into the gutter, Ruby - not while you're with me."


"Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I've thrown myself into no gutter. I know what I'm about."

"Who's throwing themselves into the gutter? I know what I'm about."


"There's two of us that way, Ruby;--for I know what I'm about."


"I shall just go then." And Ruby walked off towards the door.


"You won't get out that way, any way, for the door's locked;--and the area gate. You'd better be said, Ruby, and just take your things off."

"You won't get out that way, for the door's locked; and the area gate. You'd better just take your things off, Ruby."


Poor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb with mortification. Mrs. Pipkin had given her credit for more outrageous perseverance than she possessed, and had feared that she would rattle at the front door, or attempt to climb over the area gate. She was a little afraid of Ruby, not feeling herself justified in holding absolute dominion over her as over a servant. And though she was now determined in her conduct,--being fully resolved to surrender neither of the keys which she held in her pocket,--still she feared that she might so far collapse as to fall away into tears, should Ruby be violent. But Ruby was crushed. Her lover would be there to meet her, and the appointment would be broken by her! "Aunt Pipkin," she said, "let me go just this once."

Poor Ruby for the moment was struck dumb. Mrs. Pipkin had feared that she would try to climb over the area gate, for she was a little afraid of Ruby. But Ruby was crushed. Her lover would be there to meet her, and she would not turn up!
"Aunt Pipkin," she said, "let me go just this once."


"You don't know what you're a' doing of, aunt; you don't. You'll ruin me,--you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again, if you don't like."

"You don't know what you're doing, aunt. You'll ruin me, you will. Dear Aunt Pipkin, do, do! I'll never ask again."


Mrs. Pipkin had not expected this, and was almost willing to yield. But Mr. Carbury had spoken so very plainly! "It ain't the thing, Ruby; and I won't do it."


"And I'm to be--a prisoner! What have I done to be--a prisoner? I don't believe as you've any right to lock me up."

"And I'm to be - a prisoner! I don't believe as you've any right to lock me up."


"I can't help that, my dear. The door will be open to-morrow, if you choose to go out."

"I can't help that, my dear. The door will be open, if you choose to go."


"Then why not open it to-night? Where's the difference?" But Mrs. Pipkin was stern, and Ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to her garret.

"Then why not open it tonight?" But Mrs. Pipkin was stern, and Ruby, in a flood of tears, took herself up to her garret.


Mrs. Pipkin knocked at Mrs. Hurtle's door again. "She's gone to bed," she said.


"I'm glad to hear it. There wasn't any noise about it;--was there?"


"Not as I expected, Mrs. Hurtle, certainly. But she was put out a bit. Poor girl! I've been a girl too, and used to like a bit of outing as well as any one,--and a dance too; only it was always when mother knew. She ain't got a mother, poor dear! and as good as no father. And she's got it into her head that she's that pretty that a great gentleman will marry her."

"She was put out a bit. Poor girl! She ain't got a mother, poor dear! And she's got it into her head that a great gentleman will marry her.


"But what's beauty, Mrs. Hurtle? It's no more nor skin deep, as the scriptures tell us. And what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marry her? She says she'll leave to-morrow."

But what'd a grand gentleman see in Ruby to marry her? She says she'll leave tomorrow."


"Just nowhere. After this gentleman,--and you know what that means! You're going to be married yourself, Mrs. Hurtle."

"Just nowhere. After this gentleman - and you know what that means! You're going to be married yourself, Mrs. Hurtle."


"We won't mind about that now, Mrs. Pipkin."


"And this 'll be your second, and you know how these things are managed. No gentleman 'll marry her because she runs after him. Girls as knows what they're about should let the gentlemen run after them. That's my way of looking at it."

"But you know how these things are managed. No gentleman'll marry her because she runs after him. Girls should let the gentlemen run after them.


"Don't you think they should be equal in that respect?"


"Anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after the gentlemen. A gentleman goes here and he goes there, and he speaks up free, of course. In my time, girls usen't to do that. But then, maybe, I'm old-fashioned," added Mrs. Pipkin, thinking of the new dispensation.

Or anyways the girls shouldn't let on as they are running after the gentlemen. But then, maybe, I'm old-fashioned," added Mrs. Pipkin.


"I suppose girls do speak for themselves more than they did formerly."


"A deal more, Mrs. Hurtle; quite different. You hear them talk of spooning with this fellow, and spooning with that fellow,--and that before their very fathers and mothers! When I was young we used to do it, I suppose,--only not like that."


"I think we got married quicker than they do, any way. When the gentlemen had to take more trouble they thought more about it. But if you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby to-morrow, Mrs. Hurtle, she'd listen to you when she wouldn't mind a word I said to her. I don't want her to go away from this, out into the street, till she knows where she's to go to, decent. As for going to her young man,--that's just walking the streets."

"But if you wouldn't mind speaking to Ruby tomorrow, Mrs. Hurtle, she'd listen to you. I don't want her to go out into the street, till she knows where she's to go to."


Mrs. Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though when making the promise she could not but think of her unfitness for the task. She knew nothing of the country. She had not a single friend in it, but Paul Montague;--and she had run after him with as little discretion as Ruby Ruggles was showing in running after her lover. Who was she that she should take upon herself to give advice to any female?

Mrs. Hurtle promised that she would speak to Ruby, though she could not help thinking of her unfitness for the task. She knew nothing of the country. She had not a single friend in it but Paul Montague; and she had run after him with as little discretion as Ruby Ruggles. Who was she to give advice?


She had not sent her letter to Paul, but she still kept it in her pocket-book. At some moments she thought that she would send it; and at others she told herself that she would never surrender this last hope till every stone had been turned. It might still be possible to shame him into a marriage. She had returned from Lowestoft on the Monday, and had made some trivial excuse to Mrs. Pipkin in her mildest voice. The place had been windy, and too cold for her;--and she had not liked the hotel. Mrs. Pipkin was very glad to see her back again.

She had not sent her letter to Paul, but still kept it in her pocket-book. At some moments she thought that she would send it; and at others she told herself that it might still be possible to shame him into a marriage. She had returned from Lowestoft on the Monday, and had made some trivial excuse to Mrs. Pipkin in her mildest voice. The place had been windy, and too cold; and she had not liked the hotel. Mrs. Pipkin was very glad to see her back again.


Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind beyond this trouble of the Mexican Railway. It was now more than a fortnight since he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to the play, and she was still living in lodgings at Islington. He had seen her twice, once on the following day, when he was allowed to come and go without any special reference to their engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept, and after weeping had stormed. She had stood upon what she called her rights, and had dared him to be false to her. Did he mean to deny that he had promised to marry her? Was not his conduct to her, ever since she had now been in London, a repetition of that promise? And then again she became soft, and pleaded with him. But for the storm he might have given way. At that moment he had felt that any fate in life would be better than a marriage on compulsion. Her tears and her pleadings, nevertheless, touched him very nearly. He had promised her most distinctly. He had loved her and had won her love. And she was lovely. The very violence of the storm made the sunshine more sweet. She would sit down on a stool at his feet, and it was impossible to drive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he could not but embrace her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he had promised to be with her again before two days should have passed.

Paul Montague had other troubles on his mind. It was now more than a fortnight since he had taken Mrs. Hurtle to the play. He had seen her twice since, once on the following day, when she had not mentioned their engagement, and again, three or four days afterwards, when the meeting was by no means so pleasant. She had wept and stormed. She had dared him to be false to her. Did he deny that he had promised to marry her? Were his visits not a repetition of that promise? And then she became soft, and pleaded.
But for the storm, he might have given way. Her tears and pleadings touched him. He had loved her and had won her love. And she was lovely. It was impossible to drive her away from him. She would look up in his face and he could not help embracing her. Then there had come a passionate flood of tears and she was in his arms. How he had escaped he hardly knew, but he did know that he had promised to be with her again in two days.


On the day named he wrote to her a letter excusing himself, which was at any rate true in words. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpool on business, and must postpone seeing her till his return. And he explained that the business on which he was called was connected with the great American railway, and, being important, demanded his attention. In words this was true. He had been corresponding with a gentleman at Liverpool with whom he had become acquainted on his return home after having involuntarily become a partner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. This man he trusted and had consulted, and the gentleman, Mr. Ramsbottom by name, had suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He had gone, and his conduct at the Board had been the result of the advice which he had received; but it may be doubted whether some dread of the coming interview with Mrs. Hurtle had not added strength to Mr. Ramsbottom's invitation.

On the day he wrote her a letter excusing himself. He had been summoned, he said, to Liverpool on business connected with the great American railway, and must postpone seeing her till his return. This was true. He had been corresponding with a Mr. Ramsbottom at Liverpool since having become a partner in the house of Fisker, Montague, and Montague. Mr. Ramsbottom, whom he consulted and trusted, had suggested that he should come to him at Liverpool. He went, and his conduct at the Board was the result of the advice which he had received.


In Liverpool he had heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle, though it can hardly be said that he obtained any trustworthy information. The lady after landing from an American steamer had been at Mr. Ramsbottom's office, inquiring for him, Paul; and Mr. Ramsbottom had thought that the inquiries were made in a manner indicating danger. He therefore had spoken to a fellow-traveller with Mrs. Hurtle, and the fellow-traveller had opined that Mrs. Hurtle was "a queer card." "On board ship we all gave it up to her that she was about the handsomest woman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wild cat in her breeding." Then Mr. Ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow. "There was a man on board from Kansas," said the fellow-traveller, "who knew a man named Hurtle at Leavenworth, who was separated from his wife and is still alive. There was, according to him, a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols, and then having separated." This Mr. Ramsbottom, who in an earlier stage of the affair had heard something of Paul and Mrs. Hurtle together, managed to communicate to the young man. His advice about the railway company was very clear and general, and such as an honest man would certainly give; but it might have been conveyed by letter. The information, such as it was, respecting Mrs. Hurtle, could only be given viv voce, and perhaps the invitation to Liverpool had originated in Mr. Ramsbottom's appreciation of this fact. "As she was asking after you here, perhaps it is as well that you should know," his friend said to him. Paul had only thanked him, not daring on the spur of the moment to speak of his own difficulties.

In Liverpool he heard tidings of Mrs. Hurtle, though hardly trustworthy information. The lady, after landing from an American steamer, had inquired for Paul, in a manner that Mr. Ramsbottom thought indicated danger. He had spoken about her with a fellow-traveller, who had said that Mrs. Hurtle was "a queer card." "On board ship we reckoned she was about the handsomest woman we had ever seen, but we all said that there was a bit of the wild cat in her breeding." Then Mr. Ramsbottom had asked whether the lady was a widow.
"There was a man on board from Kansas," said the fellow-traveller, "who knew a man named Hurtle, who was separated from his wife and is still alive. There was a queer story about the man and his wife having fought a duel with pistols."
This information about Mrs. Hurtle could only be given to Paul face to face, which is why Mr. Ramsbottom had invited him to Liverpool.
"It is as well that you should know," his friend said to him. Paul had thanked him, not daring to speak of his own difficulties with the lady.


In all this there had been increased dismay, but there had also been some comfort. It had only been at moments in which he had been subject to her softer influences that Paul had doubted as to his adherence to the letter which he had written to her, breaking off his engagement. When she told him of her wrongs and of her love; of his promise and his former devotion to her; when she assured him that she had given up everything in life for him, and threw her arms round him, looking into his eyes;--then he would almost yield. But when, what the traveller called the breeding of the wild cat, showed itself;--and when, having escaped from her, he thought of Hetta Carbury and of her breeding,--he was fully determined that, let his fate be what it might, it should not be that of being the husband of Mrs. Hurtle. That he was in a mass of troubles from which it would be very difficult for him to extricate himself he was well aware;--but if it were true that Mr. Hurtle was alive, that fact might help him. She certainly had declared him to be,--not separated, or even divorced,--but dead. And if it were true also that she had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to be a reason why a gentleman should object to become her second husband. These facts would at any rate justify himself to himself, and would enable himself to break from his engagement without thinking himself to be a false traitor.

In all this there had been increased dismay, but also some comfort. Sometimes Paul had doubted whether he should break off his engagement. When she assured him that she had given up everything in life for him, and threw her arms round him - then he would almost yield. But when what the traveller had called the wild cat showed itself - and when, having escaped from her, he thought of Hetta Carbury - he was fully determined that he would not marry Mrs. Hurtle.
That he was tangled in a mass of troubles he was well aware; but if it were true that Mr. Hurtle was alive, that fact might help him. She certainly had declared him to be dead. And if it were true also that she had fought a duel with one husband, that also ought to justify him in breaking from his engagement.


But he must make up his mind as to some line of conduct. She must be made to know the truth. If he meant to reject the lady finally on the score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt very strongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That he would have to undergo some severe handling, an amount of clawing which might perhaps go near his life, he could perceive. Having done what he had done he would have no right to shrink from such usage. He must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life, and that therefore he would not marry her. Of course he might write to her;--but when summoned to her presence he would be unable to excuse himself, even to himself, for not going. It was his misfortune,--and also his fault,--that he had submitted to be loved by a wild cat.

He must make up his mind what to do. If he meant to reject the lady finally on the score of her being a wild cat, he must tell her so. He felt very strongly that he must not flinch from the wild cat's claws. That he would have to undergo some mauling and clawing, he understood. He must tell her to her face that he was not satisfied with her past life, and that therefore he would not marry her.


But it might be well that before he saw her he should get hold of information that might have the appearance of real evidence. He returned from Liverpool to London on the morning of the Friday on which the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than he did of the attack which he was prepared to make on Mr. Melmotte. If he could come across that traveller he might learn something. The husband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If Caradoc Carson Hurtle had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last two years, that certainly would be sufficient evidence. As to the duel he felt that it might be very hard to prove that, and that if proved, it might be hard to found upon the fact any absolute right on his part to withdraw from the engagement. But there was a rumour also, though not corroborated during his last visit to Liverpool, that she had shot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story? If they were all true, surely he could justify himself to himself.

But before he saw her it would be as well to get some real evidence. He returned from Liverpool to London on the morning on which the Board was held, and thought even more of all this than he did of his attack on Mr. Melmotte. The husband's name had been Caradoc Carson Hurtle. If he had been seen in the State of Kansas within the last two years, that certainly would be evidence. As to the duel, he felt that it might be very hard to prove that. But there was a rumour also that she had shot a gentleman in Oregon. Could he get at the truth of that story?


But this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having had the woman in his arms how could he undertake such inquiries as these? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her in his arms again while he was making them,--unless indeed he made them with her knowledge. Was it not his duty, as a man, to tell everything to herself? To speak to her thus;--"I am told that your life with your last husband was, to say the least of it, eccentric; that you even fought a duel with him. I could not marry a woman who had fought a duel,--certainly not a woman who had fought with her own husband. I am told also that you shot another gentleman in Oregon. It may well be that the gentleman deserved to be shot; but there is something in the deed so repulsive to me,--no doubt irrationally,--that, on that score also, I must decline to marry you. I am told also that Mr. Hurtle has been seen alive quite lately. I had understood from you that he is dead. No doubt you may have been deceived. But as I should not have engaged myself to you had I known the truth, so now I consider myself justified in absolving myself from an engagement which was based on a misconception." It would no doubt be difficult to get through all these details; but it might be accomplished gradually,--unless in the process of doing so he should incur the fate of the gentleman in Oregon. At any rate he would declare to her as well as he could the ground on which he claimed a right to consider himself free, and would bear the consequences. Such was the resolve which he made on his journey up from Liverpool, and that trouble was also on his mind when he rose up to attack Mr. Melmotte single-handed at the Board.

However, this detective's work was very distasteful to him. After having had the woman in his arms how could he make such inquiries? And it would be almost necessary that he should take her in his arms again while he was making them, unless he told her outright that he would not marry her because of what he had heard. In so doing he might incur the fate of the gentleman in Oregon.
At any rate he would declare the ground on which he considered himself free, and would bear the consequences. This was the resolve in his mind when he rose up to attack Mr. Melmotte at the Board.


When the Board was over, he also went down to the Beargarden. Perhaps, with reference to the Board, the feeling which hurt him most was the conviction that he was spending money which he would never have had to spend had there been no Board. He had been twitted with this at the Board-meeting, and had justified himself by referring to the money which had been invested in the Company of Fisker, Montague, and Montague, which money was now supposed to have been made over to the railway. But the money which he was spending had come to him after a loose fashion, and he knew that if called upon for an account, he could hardly make out one which would be square and intelligible to all parties. Nevertheless he spent much of his time at the Beargarden, dining there when no engagement carried him elsewhere. On this evening he joined his table with Nidderdale's, at the young lord's instigation. "What made you so savage at old Melmotte to-day?" said the young lord.

When the Board was over, he went down to the Beargarden, where he often dined. This evening he sat with Nidderdale, at the young lord's instigation.
"What made you so savage at old Melmotte today?" said Nidderdale.


"I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as we call ourselves Directors we ought to know something about it."

"I didn't mean to be savage, but I think that as Directors we ought to know something about it."


"I suppose we ought. I don't know, you know. I'll tell you what I've been thinking. I can't make out why the mischief they made me a Director."

"I suppose we ought. I don't know. I can't make out why the mischief they made me a Director."


"Because you're a lord," said Paul bluntly.


"I suppose there's something in that. But what good can I do them? Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm in Parliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote. Everybody knows that I'm hard up. I can't understand it. The Governor said that I was to do it, and so I've done it."

"But what good can I do them? Nobody thinks that I know anything about business. Of course I'm in Parliament, but I don't often go there unless they want me to vote. I can't understand it. The Governor said that I was to do it, and so I've done it."


"They say, you know,--there's something between you and Melmotte's daughter."

"They say, you know - there's something between you and Melmotte's daughter."


"But if there is, what has that to do with a railway in the city? And why should Carbury be there? And, heaven and earth, why should old Grendall be a Director? I'm impecunious; but if you were to pick out the two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would be old Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I can't make it out."

"But what has that to do with a railway? And why should Carbury be there? And why on earth should old Grendall be a Director? If you were to pick out the two most hopeless men in London in regard to money, they would be old Grendall and young Carbury. I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I can't make it out."


"I have been thinking about it too," said Paul.


"I suppose old Melmotte is all right?" asked Nidderdale. This was a question which Montague found it difficult to answer. How could he be justified in whispering suspicions to the man who was known to be at any rate one of the competitors for Marie Melmotte's hand? "You can speak out to me, you know," said Nidderdale, nodding his head.

"I suppose old Melmotte is all right?"
This was a question which Paul found it difficult to answer. How could he whisper suspicions to the man who was a competitor for Marie Melmotte's hand?
"You can speak out to me, you know," said Nidderdale.


"I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is about the richest man alive."

"I've got nothing to speak. People say that he is the richest man alive.


"I don't see why it shouldn't be all true. Nobody, I take it, knows very much about him." When his companion had left him, Nidderdale sat down, thinking of it all. It occurred to him that he would "be coming a cropper rather," were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for her money, and then find that she had got none.

I don't see why it shouldn't be true. Nobody knows very much about him."
It occurred to Nidderdale that he would "come a cropper" were he to marry Melmotte's daughter for her money, and then find that she had got none.


A little later in the evening he invited Montague to go up to the card-room. "Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are there waiting," he said. But Paul declined. He was too full of his troubles for play. "Poor Miles isn't there, if you're afraid of that," said Nidderdale.

After dinner he invited Montague to go up to the card-room.
"Carbury, and Grasslough, and Dolly Longestaffe are there," he said.
But Paul declined.


"Miles Grendall wouldn't hinder me," said Montague.


"Nor me either. Of course it's a confounded shame. I know that as well as any body. But, God bless me, I owe a fellow down in Leicestershire heaven knows how much for keeping horses, and that's a shame."


"I suppose I shall,--if I don't die first. But I should have gone on with the horses just the same if there had never been anything to come;--only they wouldn't have given me tick, you know. As far as I'm concerned it's just the same. I like to live whether I've got money or not. And I fear I don't have many scruples about paying. But then I like to let live too. There's Carbury always saying nasty things about poor Miles. He's playing himself without a rap to back him. If he were to lose, Vossner wouldn't stand him a 10 note. But because he has won, he goes on as though he were old Melmotte himself. You'd better come up."


But Montague wouldn't go up. Without any fixed purpose he left the club, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he found himself in Welbeck Street. He hardly knew why he went there, and certainly had not determined to call on Lady Carbury when he left the Beargarden. His mind was full of Mrs. Hurtle. As long as she was present in London,--as long at any rate as he was unable to tell himself that he had finally broken away from her,--he knew himself to be an unfit companion for Henrietta Carbury. And, indeed, he was still under some promise made to Roger Carbury, not that he would avoid Hetta's company, but that for a certain period, as yet unexpired, he would not ask her to be his wife. It had been a foolish promise, made and then repented without much attention to words;--but still it was existing, and Paul knew well that Roger trusted that it would be kept. Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Street and almost unconsciously knocked at the door. No;--Lady Carbury was not at home. She was out somewhere with Mr. Roger Carbury. Up to that moment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader may remember that he had come up in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carbury was at home, the page went on to say. Would Mr. Montague go up and see Miss Carbury? Without much consideration Mr. Montague said that he would go up and see Miss Carbury. "Mamma is out with Roger," said Hetta endeavouring to save herself from confusion. "There is a soire of learned people somewhere, and she made poor Roger take her. The ticket was only for her and her friend, and therefore I could not go."

He left the club, and slowly sauntered northwards through the streets till he found himself in Welbeck Street; he hardly knew why. He had certainly intended to call on Lady Carbury. But his mind was full of Mrs. Hurtle.
And, indeed, he was still under some promise made to Roger Carbury, that for a certain period, still unexpired, he would not ask Hetta to be his wife. It had been a foolish promise, made and then repented; but still it existed, and Paul knew that Roger trusted that it would be kept.
Nevertheless Paul made his way up to Welbeck Street and almost unconsciously knocked at the door. No; Lady Carbury was not at home. She was out somewhere with Mr. Roger Carbury. Up to that moment Paul had not heard that Roger was in town; but the reader may remember that he had come in search of Ruby Ruggles. Miss Carbury was at home, the servant said. Would Mr. Montague go up and see her? Without considering, Mr. Montague said that he would.
"Mamma is out with Roger," said Hetta, trying to save herself from confusion. "She made him take her to some soire of learned people."


"I am so glad to see you. What an age it is since we met."


"Hardly since the Melmottes' ball," said Hetta.


"Hardly indeed. I have been here once since that. What has brought Roger up to town?"


"I don't know what it is. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a mystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix. I do get so unhappy about Felix, Mr. Montague."

"I don't know. Some mystery, I think. Whenever there is a mystery I am always afraid that there is something wrong about Felix."


"I saw him to-day in the city, at the Railway Board."

"I saw Felix today, at the Railway Board."


"But Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham,"--Paul could not keep himself from blushing as he heard this,--"and that Felix should not be there. And then there is something going on about that horrid man's daughter."

"Roger says the Railway Board is all a sham." Paul could not help blushing as he heard this. "And there is something going on about that horrid man's daughter."


"She is to marry Lord Nidderdale, I think."


"Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, and of course it is for her money. And I believe that man is determined to quarrel with them."

"Is she? They are talking of her marrying Felix, for her money of course. And I believe Mr. Melmotte is determined to quarrel with them


"Mr. Melmotte himself. It's all horrid from beginning to end."


"But I saw them in the city to-day and they seemed to be the greatest friends. When I wanted to see Mr. Melmotte he bolted himself into an inner room, but he took your brother with him. He would not have done that if they had not been friends. When I saw it I almost thought that he had consented to the marriage."

"But today they seemed to be the greatest friends. Mr. Melmotte asked your brother into an inner room with him, as if they were friends."


"Roger has the greatest dislike to Mr. Melmotte."


"And Roger is always right. It is always safe to trust him. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague?" Paul did think so, and was by no means disposed to deny to his rival the praise which rightly belonged to him; but still he found the subject difficult. "Of course I will never go against mamma," continued Hetta, "but I always feel that my Cousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one would never get wrong. I never found any one else that I thought that of, but I do think it of him."

And it is always safe to trust Roger. Don't you think so, Mr. Montague?" Paul did think so; but he found the subject difficult. "Of course I will never go against mamma," continued Hetta, "but I always feel that my Cousin Roger is a rock of strength, so that if one did whatever he said one would never go wrong."


"No one has more reason to praise him than I have."


"I think everybody has reason to praise him that has to do with him. And I'll tell you why I think it is. Whenever he thinks anything he says it;--or, at least, he never says anything that he doesn't think. If he spent a thousand pounds, everybody would know that he'd got it to spend; but other people are not like that."

"I think everybody who knows him has reason to praise him."


"I'm thinking of everybody, Mr. Montague;--of everybody except Roger."


"Is he the only man you can trust? But it is abominable to me to seem even to contradict you. Roger Carbury has been to me the best friend that any man ever had. I think as much of him as you do."

"Is he the only man you can trust? But I should not contradict you. Roger Carbury has been the best friend that any man ever had."


"I didn't say he was the only person;--or I didn't mean to say so. But of all my friends--"

"I didn't say he was the only person. But of all my friends-"


"Yes;--I suppose so. Of course you are. Why not? Of course you are a friend,--because you are his friend."

"Yes; why not? Of course you are a friend - because you are his friend."


"Look here, Hetta," he said. "It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carbury,--as well as one man can love another. He is all that you say,--and more. You hardly know how he denies himself, and how he thinks of everybody near him. He is a gentleman all round and every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbour as himself."

"Look here, Hetta," he said. "It is no good going on like this. I love Roger Carbury. He is all that you say, and more. He is a gentleman every inch. He never lies. He never takes what is not his own. I believe he does love his neighbour as himself."


"Oh, Mr. Montague! I am so glad to hear you speak of him like that."


"I love him better than any man,--as well as a man can love a man. If you will say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man,--I will leave England at once, and never return to it."

"I love him as well as a man can love a man. If you say that you love him as well as a woman can love a man, I will leave England at once, and never return."


"There's mamma," said Henrietta;--for at that moment there was a double knock at the door.

"There's mamma," said Henrietta; for at that moment there was a knock at the door.


In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. John Crumb had been up to London, had been formally reconciled to Ruby,--who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that had satisfied her future husband,--had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and almost munificent in liberality to Mrs. Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had given on a former occasion. During this visit he had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation in reference to the baronite. When informed by Mrs. Pipkin, who hoped thereby to please him, that Sir Felix was supposed to be still "all one mash of gore," he blandly smiled, remarking that no man could be much the worse for a "few sich taps as them." He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled everything. When Mrs. Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from her house, he winked his eye as he declined the suggestion with thanks. Daniel Ruggles was old, and, under the influence of continued gin and water, was becoming feeble. John Crumb was of opinion that the old man should not be neglected, and hinted that with a little care the five hundred pounds which had originally been promised as Ruby's fortune, might at any rate be secured. He was of opinion that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk,--the feast being spread at Sheep's Acre farm, if Dan Ruggles could be talked into giving it,--and if not, at his own house. When both the ladies explained to him that this last proposition was not in strict accordance with the habits of the fashionable world, John expressed an opinion that, under the peculiar circumstances of his marriage, the ordinary laws of the world might be suspended. "It ain't jist like other folks, after all as we've been through," said he,--meaning probably to imply that having had to fight for his wife, he was entitled to give a breakfast on the occasion if he pleased. But whether the banquet was to be given by the bride's grandfather or by himself,--he was determined that there should be a banquet, and that he would bid the guests. He invited both Mrs. Pipkin and Mrs. Hurtle, and at last succeeded in inducing Mrs. Hurtle to promise that she would bring Mrs. Pipkin down to Bungay, for the occasion.

In the meantime great preparations were going on down in Suffolk for the marriage of that happiest of lovers, John Crumb. He had been formally reconciled to Ruby - who had submitted to his floury embraces, not with the best grace in the world, but still with a submission that satisfied her future husband. He had been intensely grateful to Mrs. Hurtle, and munificent to Mrs. Pipkin, to whom he presented a purple silk dress, in addition to the cloak which he had already given her. He had expressed no anger against Ruby, and no indignation about the baronite.
He only stayed a few hours in London, but during these few hours he settled everything. When Mrs. Pipkin suggested that Ruby should be married from her house, he declined the suggestion with thanks. He thought that the marriage should be celebrated in Suffolk - the feast being spread at Sheep's Acre farm, if old Ruggles could be talked into giving it; if not, at his own house. Either way, he was determined that there should be a banquet, and succeeded in making Mrs. Hurtle promise to bring Mrs. Pipkin down to Bungay for the occasion.


Then it was necessary to fix the day, and for this purpose it was of course essential that Ruby should be consulted. During the discussion as to the feast and the bridegroom's entreaties that the two ladies would be present, she had taken no part in the matter in hand. She was brought up to be kissed, and having been duly kissed she retired again among the children, having only expressed one wish of her own,--namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. But the day could not be fixed without her, and she was summoned. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday,--making his proposition on a Friday. They could cook enough meat for all Bungay to eat by Tuesday, and he was aware of no other cause for delay. "That's out of the question," Ruby had said decisively, and as the two elder ladies had supported her Mr. Crumb yielded with a good grace. He did not himself appreciate the reasons given because, as he remarked, gowns can be bought ready made at any shop. But Mrs. Pipkin told him with a laugh that he didn't know anything about it, and when the 14th of August was named he only scratched his head and, muttering something about Thetford fair, agreed that he would, yet once again, allow love to take precedence of business. If Tuesday would have suited the ladies as well he thought that he might have managed to combine the marriage and the fair, but when Mrs. Pipkin told him that he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace. He merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk, revolving in his mind how glorious should be the matrimonial triumph which he had at last achieved.

Then it was necessary to fix the day. Ruby only expressed one wish of her own: namely, that Joe Mixet might not have anything to do with the affair. Crumb had been absurdly impatient, proposing next Tuesday.
"That's out of the question," Ruby had said decisively, and the other ladies agreed. When the 14th of August was named John Crumb scratched his head and muttered something about Thetford fair; but on Mrs. Pipkin telling him that he must not interfere any further, he yielded with a good grace. He merely remained in London long enough to pay a friendly visit to the policeman who had locked him up, and then returned to Suffolk.


Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been constrained to forgive his granddaughter, and to give a general assent to the marriage. When John Crumb, with a sound of many trumpets, informed all Bungay that he had returned victorious from London, and that after all the ups and downs of his courtship Ruby was to become his wife on a fixed day, all Bungay took his part, and joined in a general attack upon Mr. Daniel Ruggles. The cross-grained old man held out for a long time, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be, and that she had run away with the baronite. But this assertion was met by so strong a torrent of contradiction, that the farmer was absolutely driven out of his own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight since to take away her character. But it had become an acknowledged fact in Bungay that John Crumb was ready at any hour to punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had, at any period of her life, done any act or spoken any word unbecoming a young lady; and so strong was the general belief in John Crumb, that Ruby became the subject of general eulogy from all male lips in the town. And though perhaps some slight suspicion of irregular behaviour up in London might be whispered by the Bungay ladies among themselves, still the feeling in favour of Mr. Crumb was so general, and his constancy was so popular, that the grandfather could not stand against it. "I don't see why I ain't to do as I likes with my own," he said to Joe Mixet, the baker, who went out to Sheep's Acre Farm as one of many deputations sent by the municipality of Bungay.

Before the day arrived, old Ruggles had been persuaded to forgive his granddaughter, and agree to the marriage. The old man held out for a long time, alleging that the girl was no better than she should be; but all the town met this with such a torrent of contradiction that the farmer was driven out of his own convictions. It is to be feared that many lies were told on Ruby's behalf by lips which had been quite ready a fortnight earlier to take away her character. But it was known that John Crumb was ready to punch the head of any man who should hint that Ruby Ruggles had ever done anything unbecoming. And the feeling in favour of Mr. Crumb was so general that the grandfather could not stand against it.


"She's your own flesh and blood, Mr. Ruggles," said the baker.


"No; she ain't;--no more than she's a Pipkin. She's taken up with Mrs. Pipkin jist because I hate the Pipkinses. Let Mrs. Pipkin give 'em a breakfast."


"She is your own flesh and blood,--and your name, too, Mr. Ruggles. And she's going to be the respectable wife of a respectable man, Mr. Ruggles."


"I won't give 'em no breakfast;--that's flat," said the farmer.


But he had yielded in the main when he allowed himself to base his opposition on one immaterial detail. The breakfast was to be given at the King's Head, and, though it was acknowledged on all sides that no authority could be found for such a practice, it was known that the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. He was very clear in his mind that his undertaking on that head was altogether cancelled by Ruby's departure from Sheep's Acre. When he was reminded that he had nearly pulled his granddaughter's hair out of her head, and had thus justified her act of rebellion, he did not contradict the assertion, but implied that if Ruby did not choose to earn her fortune on such terms as those, that was her fault. It was not to be supposed that he was to give a girl, who was after all as much a Pipkin as a Ruggles, five hundred pounds for nothing. But, in return for that night's somewhat harsh treatment of Ruby, he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death,--an arrangement which both the lawyer and Joe Mixet thought to be almost as good as a free gift, being both of them aware that the consumption of gin and water was on the increase. And he, moreover, was persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night previous to the marriage. This very necessary arrangement was made by Mr. Mixet's mother, a most respectable old lady, who went out in a fly from the inn attired in her best black silk gown and an overpowering bonnet, an old lady from whom her son had inherited his eloquence, who absolutely shamed the old man into compliance,--not, however, till she had promised to send out the tea and white sugar and box of biscuits which were thought to be necessary for Mrs. Pipkin on the evening preceding the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for the special accommodation of Mrs. Hurtle,--who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to be properly entertained at Sheep's Acre Farm.

Old Mr. Ruggles held out on one detail. The breakfast was to be given at the King's Head, and the bill was to be paid by the bridegroom. Nor would Mr. Ruggles pay the five hundred pounds down as in early days he had promised to do. But he did at last consent to have the money settled upon John Crumb at his death; and moreover was persuaded to receive Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby at the farm for the night before the marriage. A private sitting-room at the inn was secured for Mrs. Hurtle - who was supposed to be a lady of too high standing to stay at Sheep's Acre Farm.


On the day preceding the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb, with the urbanity of a lover, had assented to her demand,--as far, at least, as silence can give consent. And yet he felt himself unable to answer such interrogatories as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend, although he devoted much study to the matter. "You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it," suggested Crumb.

On the day before the wedding one trouble for a moment clouded the bridegroom's brow. Ruby had demanded that Joe Mixet should not be among the performers, and John Crumb had agreed. Yet he felt himself unable to answer such questions as the parson might put to him without the assistance of his friend.
"You could come in behind like, Joe, just as if I knew nothin' about it," suggested Crumb.


"Don't you say a word of me, and she won't say nothing, you may be sure. You ain't going to give in to all her cantraps that way, John?" John shook his head and rubbed the meal about on his forehead. "It was only just something for her to say. What have I done that she should object to me?"

"What have I done that she should object to me?"


"You didn't ever go for to--kiss her,--did you, Joe?"

"You didn't ever go for to - kiss her, did you, Joe?"


"What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's Acre, when her mind was turned the other way. Don't you notice nothing about it. When we're all in the church she won't go back because Joe Mixet's there. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone."

"What a one'er you are! That wouldn't 'a set her again me. It is just because I stood up and spoke for you like a man that night at Sheep's Acre. I'll bet you a gallon, old fellow, she and I are the best friends in Bungay before six months are gone."


"Nay, nay; she must have a better friend than thee, Joe, or I must know the reason why." But John Crumb's heart was too big for jealousy, and he agreed at last that Joe Mixet should be his best man, undertaking to "square it all" with Ruby, after the ceremony.

So John Crumb agreed that Joe Mixet should be his best man, undertaking to "square it all" with Ruby after the ceremony.


He met the ladies at the station and,--for him,--was quite eloquent in his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat, and generally bright in subsidiary wedding garments, with great delight. "Ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the great delight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him on the occasion. Ruby, hearing her praises thus sung, made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered to her aunt, so that those only who were within a yard or two could hear her; "He is such a fool!" Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle in an omnibus up to the Inn, and afterwards himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre; in the performance of all which duties he was dressed in the green cutaway coat with brass buttons which had been expressly made for his marriage. "Thou'rt come back then, Ruby," said the old man.

He met the ladies at the station and - for him - was quite eloquent in his welcome to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin. To Ruby he said but little. But he looked at her in her new hat and outfit with great delight.
"Ain't she bootiful now?" he said aloud to Mrs. Hurtle on the platform, to the delight of half Bungay, who had accompanied him.
Ruby made a fearful grimace as she turned round to Mrs. Pipkin, and whispered, "He is such a fool!"
Then he conducted Mrs. Hurtle up to the Inn, and himself drove Mrs. Pipkin and Ruby out to Sheep's Acre.
"Thou'rt come back then, Ruby," said the old man.


"I ain't going to trouble you long, grandfather," said the girl.


"So best;--so best. And this is Mrs. Pipkin?"


"I've heard your name. I've heard your name, and I don't know as I ever want to hear it again. But they say as you've been kind to that girl as 'd 'a been on the town only for that."

They say as you've been kind to that girl as would 'a been on the town only for that."


"Grandfather, that ain't true," said Ruby with energy. The old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby was allowed to take her aunt up into the bedroom which they were both to occupy. "Now, Mrs. Pipkin, just you say," pleaded Ruby, "how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?"

"Grandfather, that ain't true," said Ruby with energy. The old man made no rejoinder, and Ruby took her aunt up into the bedroom. "Now, Mrs. Pipkin," pleaded Ruby, "how was it possible for any girl to live with an old man like that?"


"But, Ruby, you might always have gone to live with the young man instead when you pleased."

"But, Ruby, you might have gone to live with John Crumb instead when you pleased."


"There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite; and the other man says nothing at all."

"There ain't much to choose between 'em. What one says is all spite; and the other says nothing at all."


"Oh Ruby, Ruby," said Mrs. Pipkin, with solemnly persuasive voice, "I hope you'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue,--specially with vittels certain."

"Oh Ruby, Ruby," said Mrs. Pipkin solemnly, "You'll come to learn some day, that a loving heart is better nor a fickle tongue, specially with vittels certain."


On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. He himself went out to the farm and drove the bride and Mrs. Pipkin into the town, expressing an opinion that no hired charioteer would bring them so safely as he would do himself; nor did he think it any disgrace to be seen performing this task before his marriage. He smiled and nodded at every one, now and then pointing back with his whip to Ruby when he met any of his specially intimate friends, as though he would have said, "See, I've got her at last in spite of all difficulties." Poor Ruby, in her misery under this treatment, would have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But now she was altogether in the man's hands and no escape was within her reach. "What's the odds?" said Mrs. Pipkin as they settled their bonnets in a room at the Inn just before they entered the church. "Drat it,--you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you? Ain't he got a house of his own? Ain't he well to do all round? Manners! What's manners? I don't see nothing amiss in his manners. He means what he says, and I call that the best of good manners."

On the following morning the Bungay church bells rang merrily, and half its population was present to see John Crumb made a happy man. He himself drove the bride and Mrs. Pipkin into the town, smiling and nodding at every one. Poor Ruby would have escaped out of the cart had it been possible. But no escape was within her reach.
"Drat it," said Mrs. Pipkin, just before they entered the church, "you make me that angry I'm half minded to cuff you. Ain't he fond o' you? Ain't he got a house? Ain't he well to do all round?"


Ruby, when she reached the church, had been too completely quelled by outward circumstances to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was standing there, quite unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his button-hole. She certainly had no right on this occasion to complain of her husband's silence. Whereas she could hardly bring herself to utter the responses in a voice loud enough for the clergyman to catch the familiar words, he made his assertions so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole building. "I, John,--take thee Ruby,--to my wedded wife,--to 'ave and to 'old,--from this day forrard,--for better nor worser,--for richer nor poorer--;" and so on to the end. And when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his Ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. Since the day had been fixed he had employed all his leisure-hours in learning the words by heart, and would now hardly allow the clergyman to say them before him. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it been possible.

Ruby, when she reached the church, was too completely quelled to take any notice of Joe Mixet, who was standing there, unabashed, with a splendid nosegay in his button-hole. She certainly could not complain of her husband's silence. He made his responses to the clergyman so vehemently that they were heard throughout the whole building.
"I, John - take thee Ruby - to my wedded wife-" and so on to the end. And when he came to the "worldly goods" with which he endowed his Ruby, he was very emphatic indeed. He thoroughly enjoyed the ceremony, and would have liked to be married over and over again, every day for a week, had it been possible.


And then there came the breakfast, to which he marshalled the way up the broad stairs of the inn at Bungay, with Mrs. Hurtle on one arm and Mrs. Pipkin on the other. He had been told that he ought to take his wife's arm on this occasion, but he remarked that he meant to see a good deal of her in future, and that his opportunities of being civil to Mrs. Hurtle and Mrs. Pipkin would be rare. Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet himself. Ruby, I think, had forgotten the order which she had given in reference to the baker. When desiring that she might see nothing more of Joe Mixet, she had been in her pride;--but now she was so tamed and quelled by the outward circumstances of her position, that she was glad to have some one near her who knew how to behave himself. "Mrs. Crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said Joe Mixet in a whisper.

And then there came the breakfast, to which he led the way with Mrs. Hurtle on one arm and Mrs. Pipkin on the other. Thus it came to pass that, in spite of all that poor Ruby had said, she was conducted to the marriage-feast by Joe Mixet. But she was so tamed by circumstances that she was glad to have someone near her who knew how to behave himself.
"Mrs. Crumb, you have my best wishes for your continued 'ealth and 'appiness," said Joe Mixet.


"It's very good of you to say so, Mr. Mixet."


"You just be fond of him and stroke him down, and make much of him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him,--all's one as a babby."

"You just be fond of him and make much of him, and I'm blessed if you mayn't do a'most anything with him.


"A man shouldn't be all's one as a babby, Mr. Mixet."


"And he don't drink hard, but he works hard, and go where he will he can hold his own." Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many people should pay John Crumb so much respect, and should seem to think so little of the meal and flour which pervaded his countenance.

And he don't drink hard, but he works hard."
Ruby said no more, and soon found herself seated by her husband's side. It certainly was wonderful to her that so many people should pay John Crumb so much respect.


After the breakfast, or "bit of dinner," as John Crumb would call it, Mr. Mixet of course made a speech. "He had had the pleasure of knowing John Crumb for a great many years, and the honour of being acquainted with Miss Ruby Ruggles,--he begged all their pardons, and should have said Mrs. John Crumb,--ever since she was a child." "That's a downright story," said Ruby in a whisper to Mrs. Hurtle. "And he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appinesses. He had understood that Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the present company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. For Miss Ruby,--Mrs. Crumb he should say,--was certainly lovely as ere a Wenus as ever was; and as for John Crumb, he didn't believe that ever a Mars among 'em could stand again him. He didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up. 'Appy is the man as 'as his quiver full of 'em,--and the woman too, if you'll allow me to say so, Mrs. Crumb." The speech, of which only a small sample can be given here, was very much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present,--with the single exception of poor Ruby, who would have run away and locked herself in an inner chamber had she not been certain that she would be brought back again.

After the breakfast, Mr. Mixet made a speech. "He had had the pleasure of knowing John Crumb and Miss Ruby Ruggles for a great many years, and he'd never known two young people more fitted by the gifts of nature to contribute to one another's 'appiness. He had understood that Mars and Wenus always lived on the best of terms, and perhaps the company would excuse him if he likened this 'appy young couple to them two 'eathen gods and goddesses. He didn't remember just at present whether Mars and Wenus had any young family, but he hoped that before long there would be any number of young Crumbs for the Bungay birds to pick up." The speech, of which only a small sample can be given here, was much admired by the ladies and gentlemen present - with the single exception of poor Ruby.


In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When she was alone with the man, knowing that he was her husband, and thinking something of all that he had done to win her to be his wife, she did learn to respect him. "Now, Ruby, give a fellow a buss,--as though you meant it," he said, when the first fitting occasion presented itself.

In the afternoon John took his bride to Lowestoft, and brought her back to all the glories of his own house on the following day. His honeymoon was short, but its influence on Ruby was beneficent. When she was alone with him, and thinking of all that he had done to win her, she did learn to respect him.
"Now, Ruby, give a fellow a kiss - as though you meant it," he said.


"It ain't nonsense to me, I can tell you. I'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed." Then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she returned with him to Bungay the next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife.

"It ain't nonsense to me. I'd sooner have a kiss from you than all the wine as ever was swallowed."
Then she did kiss him, "as though she meant it;" and when she returned with him to Bungay the next day, she had made up her mind that she would endeavour to do her duty by him as his wife.


"I have half a mind to go back to-morrow morning," Felix said to his mother that Sunday evening after dinner. At that moment Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her own room.

"I have half a mind to go back tomorrow morning," Felix said to his mother that evening after dinner. Roger was walking round the garden by himself, and Henrietta was in her room.

Chapter 19: Hetta Carbury Hears a Love Tale


"To-morrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!"

"Tomorrow morning, Felix! You are engaged to dine with the Longestaffes!"


"You could make any excuse you like about that."