"Carbury Manor, down in Suffolk, near the Longestaffes, is the old family place."

"Carbury Manor, down in Suffolk, near the Longestaffes."


"That doesn't belong to you," said Melmotte, very sharply.

"That doesn't belong to you," said Melmotte sharply.


Perhaps if there is one thing in England more difficult than another to be understood by men born and bred out of England, it is the system under which titles and property descend together, or in various lines. The jurisdiction of our Courts of Law is complex, and so is the business of Parliament. But the rules regulating them, though anomalous, are easy to the memory compared with the mixed anomalies of the peerage and primogeniture. They who are brought up among it, learn it as children do a language, but strangers who begin the study in advanced life, seldom make themselves perfect in it. It was everything to Melmotte that he should understand the ways of the country which he had adopted; and when he did not understand, he was clever at hiding his ignorance. Now he was puzzled. He knew that Sir Felix was a baronet, and therefore presumed him to be the head of the family. He knew that Carbury Manor belonged to Roger Carbury, and he judged by the name it must be an old family property. And now the baronet declared that he was heir to the man who was simply an Esquire. "Oh, the heir are you? But how did he get it before you? You're the head of the family?"

Now Melmotte was puzzled. He did not understand the complex English system under which titles and property descend. He wanted to comprehend the ways of the country which he had adopted; and was clever at hiding his ignorance. He knew that Sir Felix was a baronet, and therefore presumed him to be the head of the family. He knew that Carbury Manor belonged to Roger Carbury. And now the baronet declared that he was heir to the man who was simply an Esquire.
"Oh, the heir are you? But how did he get it before you? You're the head of the family?"


"Yes, I am the head of the family, of course," said Sir Felix, lying directly. "But the place won't be mine till he dies. It would take a long time to explain it all."

"Yes, I am the head of the family, of course," said Sir Felix, lying. "But the place won't be mine till he dies. It would take a long time to explain it all."


"No,--not what you'd call a young man. He isn't very old."


"If he were to marry and have children, how would it be then?"


Sir Felix was beginning to think that he might have told the truth with discretion. "I don't quite know how it would be. I have always understood that I am the heir. It's not very likely that he will marry."

"I don't quite know. I have always understood that I am the heir. It's not very likely that he will marry."


"And in the meantime what is your own property?"


[Illustration: "In the meantime what is your own property?"]


"My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock,--and then I am my mother's heir."

"My father left me money in the funds and in railway stock - and then I am my mother's heir."


"You have done me the honour of telling me that you wish to marry my daughter."


"Would you then object to inform me the amount and nature of the income on which you intend to support your establishment as a married man? I fancy that the position you assume justifies the question on my part." The bloated swindler, the vile city ruffian, was certainly taking a most ungenerous advantage of the young aspirant for wealth. It was then that Sir Felix felt his own position. Was he not a baronet, and a gentleman, and a very handsome fellow, and a man of the world who had been in a crack regiment? If this surfeited sponge of speculation, this crammed commercial cormorant, wanted more than that for his daughter, why could he not say so without asking disgusting questions such as these,--questions which it was quite impossible that a gentleman should answer? Was it not sufficiently plain that any gentleman proposing to marry the daughter of such a man as Melmotte, must do so under the stress of pecuniary embarrassment? Would it not be an understood bargain that as he provided the rank and position, she would provide the money? And yet the vulgar wretch took advantage of his assumed authority to ask these dreadful questions! Sir Felix stood silent, trying to look the man in the face, but failing;--wishing that he was well out of the house, and at the Beargarden. "You don't seem to be very clear about your own circumstances, Sir Felix. Perhaps you will get your lawyer to write to me."

Would you inform me the amount and nature of the income on which you intend to support her?"
Sir Felix felt that the bloated swindler was taking a most ungenerous advantage of him. Was he not a baronet and a gentleman, and a very handsome fellow, who had been in a crack regiment? If this surfeited sponge of speculation, this crammed commercial cormorant, wanted more than that for his daughter, why could he not say so without asking disgusting questions which it was quite impossible for a gentleman to answer? Was it not plain that any gentleman proposing to marry the daughter of such a man as Melmotte, must do so because he needed money in return for his rank? Sir Felix stood silent, wishing that he was well out of the house.
"You don't seem to be very clear about your own circumstances, Sir Felix. Perhaps you will get your lawyer to write to me."


"Perhaps that will be best," said the lover.


"Either that, or to give it up. My daughter, no doubt, will have money; but money expects money." At this moment Lord Alfred entered the room. "You're very late to-day, Alfred. Why didn't you come as you said you would?"

"Either that, or give it up." At this moment Lord Alfred entered the room. "You're very late today, Alfred.


"I was here more than an hour ago, and they said you were out."


"I haven't been out of this room all day,--except to lunch. Good morning, Sir Felix. Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have a little soda and brandy." Sir Felix had gone through some greeting with his fellow Director, Lord Alfred, and at last succeeded in getting Melmotte to shake hands with him before he went. "Do you know anything about that young fellow?" Melmotte asked as soon as the door was closed.

Good morning, Sir Felix. Ring the bell, Alfred, and we'll have a little soda and brandy."
Sir Felix succeeded in getting Melmotte to shake hands with him before he went.
"Do you know anything about that young fellow?" Melmotte asked as soon as the door was closed.


"He's a baronet without a shilling;--was in the army and had to leave it," said Lord Alfred as he buried his face in a big tumbler.

"He's a baronet without a shilling; was in the army and had to leave it," said Lord Alfred.


"Without a shilling! I supposed so. But he's heir to a place down in Suffolk;--eh?"

"I supposed so. But he's heir to a place down in Suffolk; eh?"


"Not a bit of it. It's the same name, and that's about all. Mr. Carbury has a small property there, and he might give it to me to-morrow. I wish he would, though there isn't much of it. That young fellow has nothing to do with it whatever."

"No. It's the same name, and that's about all. That young fellow has nothing to do with it whatever."


"Hasn't he now?" Mr. Melmotte as he speculated upon it, almost admired the young man's impudence.

"Hasn't he now?" Mr. Melmotte, thinking it over, almost admired the young man's impudence.


Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night, as did also the faithful Didon. I think that to Marie the night was full of pleasure,--or at any rate of pleasurable excitement. With her door locked, she packed and unpacked and repacked her treasures,--having more than once laid out on the bed the dress in which she purposed to be married. She asked Didon her opinion whether that American clergyman of whom they had heard would marry them on board, and whether in that event the dress would be fit for the occasion. Didon thought that the man, if sufficiently paid, would marry them, and that the dress would not much signify. She scolded her young mistress very often during the night for what she called nonsense; but was true to her, and worked hard for her. They determined to go without food in the morning, so that no suspicion should be raised by the use of cups and plates. They could get refreshment at the railway-station.

Marie Melmotte, as she had promised, sat up all night with Didon. To Marie the night was full of pleasurable excitement. She unpacked and repacked her treasures, including her wedding dress, and asked Didon if she thought the dress would be fit for getting married on board ship. Didon thought that the dress would not much signify. They had no breakfast, so that no suspicion should be raised by the use of cups and plates.


At six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, having his ten pounds already in his pocket,--and Marie and Didon with smaller luggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them and nothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave them their tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. They had quite determined that not a word of English was to be spoken by Marie till the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some very bad tea and almost uneatable food,--but Marie's restrained excitement was so great that food was almost unnecessary to her. They took their seats without any impediment,--and then they were off.

At six they started. Robert went first with the big boxes, and Marie and Didon with the smaller luggage followed in a second cab. No one interfered with them and nothing went wrong. The very civil man at Euston Square gave them their tickets, and even attempted to speak to them in French. They had agreed that not a word of English was to be spoken till the ship was out at sea. At the station they got some very bad tea, then took their seats - and they were off.


During a great part of the journey they were alone, and then Marie gabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future career, and all the things she would do;--how she had hated Lord Nidderdale;--especially when, after she had been awed into accepting him, he had given her no token of love;--"pas un baiser!" Didon suggested that such was the way with English lords. She herself had preferred Lord Nidderdale, but had been willing to join in the present plan,--as she said, from devoted affection to Marie. Marie went on to say that Nidderdale was ugly, and that Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning. "Bah!" exclaimed Didon, who was really disgusted that such considerations should prevail. Didon had learned in some indistinct way that Lord Nidderdale would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas Sir Felix would never be more than Sir Felix, and, of his own, would never have anything at all. She had striven with her mistress, but her mistress liked to have a will of her own. Didon no doubt had thought that New York, with 50 and other perquisites in hand, might offer her a new career. She had therefore yielded, but even now could hardly forbear from expressing disgust at the folly of her mistress. Marie bore it with imperturbable good humour. She was running away,--and was running to a distant continent,--and her lover would be with her! She gave Didon to understand that she cared nothing for marquises.

Marie gabbled to Didon about her hopes and her future life, and all the things she would do, and how she had hated Lord Nidderdale. Nidderdale was ugly, and Sir Felix was as beautiful as the morning.
"Bah!" exclaimed Didon in disgust. She had learned that Lord Nidderdale would be a marquis and would have a castle, whereas Sir Felix would never be more than Sir Felix, and would never have anything at all. She had preferred Lord Nidderdale, but her mistress liked to have a will of her own. Didon thought, however, that New York might offer her a new career, so she had yielded.
Marie bore her disgust with good humour. She was running away to a distant continent - and her lover would be with her! She cared nothing for marquises.


As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must still be very careful. It would not do for them to declare at once their destination on the platform,--so that every one about the station should know that they were going on board the packet for New York. They had time enough. They must leisurely look for the big boxes and other things, and need say nothing about the steam packet till they were in a cab. Marie's big box was directed simply "Madame Racine, Passenger to Liverpool;"--so also was directed a second box, nearly as big, which was Didon's property. Didon declared that her anxiety would not be over till she found the ship moving under her. Marie was sure that all their dangers were over,--if only Sir Felix was safe on board. Poor Marie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street, striving to find temporary oblivion for his distressing situation and loss of money, and some alleviation for his racking temples, beneath the bedclothes.

As they drew near to Liverpool Didon explained that they must still be very careful, and say nothing about New York till they were in a cab. Marie's big box was directed simply "Madame Racine, Passenger to Liverpool;" so was a second box, nearly as big, which was Didon's property. Didon declared that she would be anxious until the ship was moving. Marie was sure that all their dangers were over, if only Sir Felix was safe on board.
Poor Marie! Sir Felix was at this moment in Welbeck Street, striving to find temporary oblivion from his distressing situation and loss of money, and his headache, beneath the bedclothes.


When the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women sat for a few moments quite quiet. They would not seek remark by any hurry or noise. The door was opened, and a well-mannered porter offered to take their luggage. Didon handed out the various packages, keeping however the jewel-case in her own hands. She left the carriage first, and then Marie. But Marie had hardly put her foot on the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat, "You, I think, are Miss Melmotte." Marie was struck dumb, but said nothing. Didon immediately became voluble in French. No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine, her niece. She was Madame Racine. Melmotte! What was Melmotte? They knew nothing about Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them to pass on to their cab?

When the train arrived at Liverpool a well-mannered porter offered to take their luggage. Didon handed out the packages, keeping the jewel-case in her own hands. She left the carriage first, and then Marie. But Marie had hardly put her foot on the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat.
"You, I think, are Miss Melmotte."
Marie was struck dumb. Didon immediately became voluble in French. No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine, her niece. What was Melmotte? They knew nothing about Melmottes. Would the gentleman kindly allow them to pass on to their cab?


[Illustration: "You, I think, are Miss Melmotte."]


But the gentleman would by no means kindly allow them to pass on to their cab. With the gentleman was another gentleman,--who did not seem to be quite so much of a gentleman;--and again, not far in the distance Didon quickly espied a policeman, who did not at present connect himself with the affair, but who seemed to have his time very much at command, and to be quite ready if he were wanted. Didon at once gave up the game,--as regarded her mistress.

But the gentleman would not allow them to pass on to their cab. With him was another gentleman, and not far in the distance Didon espied a policeman, who seemed to be quite ready if he were wanted.


"I am afraid I must persist in asserting that you are Miss Melmotte," said the gentleman, "and that this other--person is your servant, Elise Didon. You speak English, Miss Melmotte." Marie declared that she spoke French. "And English too," said the gentleman. "I think you had better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany you."

"You are Miss Melmotte," said the gentleman, "and this is your servant, Elise Didon. You had better make up your minds to go back to London. I will accompany you."


"Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!" exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking up her courage for the moment, asserted the legality of her own position and of that of her mistress. They had both a right to come to Liverpool. They had both a right to get into the cab with their luggage. Nobody had a right to stop them. They had done nothing against the laws. Why were they to be stopped in this way? What was it to anybody whether they called themselves Melmotte or Racine?

"Ah, Didon, nous sommes perdues!" exclaimed Marie. Didon, plucking up her courage, asserted that they had a right to come to Liverpool. They had done nothing against the law. Why were they to be stopped in this way?


The gentleman understood the French oratory, but did not commit himself to reply in the same language. "You had better trust yourself to me; you had indeed," said the gentleman.


Then the gentleman spoke in a very low voice. "A cheque has been changed which you took from your father's house. No doubt your father will pardon that when you are once with him. But in order that we may bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the cheque,--if you force us to do so. We certainly shall not let you go on board. If you will travel back to London with me, you shall be subjected to no inconvenience which can be avoided."

"A cheque has been changed which you took from your father's house. No doubt your father will pardon that when you are back with him. But in order to bring you back safely we can arrest you on the score of the cheque, if necessary. We shall not let you go on board. If you travel back to London with me, you shall be subjected to no inconvenience."


There was certainly no help to be found anywhere. It may be well doubted whether upon the whole the telegraph has not added more to the annoyances than to the comforts of life, and whether the gentlemen who spent all the public money without authority ought not to have been punished with special severity in that they had injured humanity, rather than pardoned because of the good they had produced. Who is benefited by telegrams? The newspapers are robbed of all their old interest, and the very soul of intrigue is destroyed. Poor Marie, when she heard her fate, would certainly have gladly hanged Mr. Scudamore.

There was no help to be found anywhere. Marie blamed the telegraph system; and


When the gentleman had made his speech, she offered no further opposition. Looking into Didon's face and bursting into tears, she sat down on one of the boxes. But Didon became very clamorous on her own behalf,--and her clamour was successful. "Who was going to stop her? What had she done? Why should not she go where she pleased? Did anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody did, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She would go where she pleased." So saying she began to tug the rope of her box as though she intended to drag it by her own force out of the station. The gentleman looked at his telegram,--looked at another document which he now held in his hand, ready prepared, should it be wanted. Elise Didon had been accused of nothing that brought her within the law. The gentleman in imperfect French suggested that Didon had better return with her mistress. But Didon clamoured only the more. No; she would go to New York. She would go wherever she pleased,--all the world over. Nobody should stop her. Then she addressed herself in what little English she could command to half-a-dozen cabmen who were standing round and enjoying the scene. They were to take her trunk at once. She had money and she could pay. She started off to the nearest cab, and no one stopped her. "But the box in her hand is mine," said Marie, not forgetting her trinkets in her misery. Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and ensconced herself in the cab without a word of farewell; and her trunk was hoisted on to the roof. Then she was driven away out of the station,--and out of our story. She had a first-class cabin all to herself as far as New York, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to us to enquire.

 she offered no further opposition. Bursting into tears, she sat down on one of the boxes.
But Didon became very clamorous on her own behalf. "What had she - Didon - done? Did anybody mean to take her up for stealing anybody's money? If anybody did, that person had better look to himself. She knew the law. She would go where she pleased." So saying she began to tug her box away.
The gentleman looked at his telegram. Elise Didon had been accused of nothing unlawful. He suggested that Didon had better return with her mistress; but Didon only clamoured the more. No; she would go to New York. Nobody should stop her. She started off to the nearest cab, and no one did stop her.
"But the box in her hand is mine," said Marie, not forgetting her trinkets in her misery. Didon surrendered the jewel-case, and got into the cab without a word of farewell. Then she was driven away - and out of our story. She had a first-class cabin all to herself as far as New York, but what may have been her fate after that it matters not to us to enquire.


Poor Marie! We who know how recreant a knight Sir Felix had proved himself, who are aware that had Miss Melmotte succeeded in getting on board the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense, looking everywhere for her lover, and would then at last have been carried to New York without him, may congratulate her on her escape. And, indeed, we who know his character better than she did, may still hope in her behalf that she may be ultimately saved from so wretched a marriage. But to her her present position was truly miserable. She would have to encounter an enraged father; and when,--when should she see her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings when he should find himself on his way to New York without his love! But in one matter she made up her mind steadfastly. She would be true to him! They might chop her in pieces! Yes;--she had said it before, and she would say it again. There was, however, doubt on her mind from time to time, whether one course might not be better even than constancy. If she could contrive to throw herself out of the carriage and to be killed,--would not that be the best termination to her present disappointment? Would not that be the best punishment for her father? But how then would it be with poor Felix? "After all I don't know that he cares for me," she said to herself, thinking over it all.

Poor Marie! If she had succeeded in getting on board the ship she would have passed an hour of miserable suspense, looking everywhere for her lover, and would then have been carried to New York without him. She had a lucky escape.
But she was truly miserable. She would have to encounter an enraged father; and when should she see her lover again? Poor, poor Felix! What would be his feelings when he should find himself on his way to New York without his love!
She would be true to him. But might it not be even better to throw herself out of the carriage and to be killed? Would not that be the best punishment for her father? But how would it be with poor Felix?
"After all I don't know that he cares for me," she said to herself.


The gentleman was very kind to her, not treating her at all as though she were disgraced. As they got near town he ventured to give her a little advice. "Put a good face on it," he said, "and don't be cast down."

The gentleman was very kind to her. As they got near town he ventured to advise her. "Put a good face on it," he said, "and don't be cast down.


"Oh, I won't," she answered. "I don't mean."


"Your mother will be delighted to have you back again."


"I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again to-morrow if I had the chance." The gentleman looked at her, not having expected so much determination. "I would. Why is a girl to be made to marry to please any one but herself? I won't. And it's very mean saying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa never says anything about it."

"I don't think that mamma cares. It's papa. I'd do it again tomorrow if I had the chance. And it's very mean saying that I stole the money. I always take what I want, and papa never says anything about it."


"Two hundred and fifty pounds is a large sum, Miss Melmotte."


"It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's because papa wants me to marry another man;--and I won't. It was downright mean to send and have me taken up before all the people."

"It is nothing in our house. It isn't about the money. It's because papa wants me to marry another man; and I won't."


"You wouldn't have come back if he hadn't done that."


The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square while on the journey, and at Euston Square they were met by one of the Melmotte carriages. Marie was to be taken home in the carriage, and the box was to follow in a cab;--to follow at some interval so that Grosvenor Square might not be aware of what had taken place. Grosvenor Square, of course, very soon knew all about it. "And are you to come?" Marie asked, speaking to the gentleman. The gentleman replied that he had been requested to see Miss Melmotte home. "All the people will wonder who you are," said Marie laughing. Then the gentleman thought that Miss Melmotte would be able to get through her troubles without much suffering.

The gentleman had telegraphed up to Grosvenor Square, and at Euston they were met by one of the Melmotte carriages. Marie was taken home in the carriage, and the box was to follow later in a cab, so that Grosvenor Square might not be aware of what had happened. Grosvenor Square, of course, very soon knew all about it.


When she got home she was hurried up at once to her mother's room,--and there she found her father, alone. "This is your game, is it?" said he, looking down at her.

When she got home she was hurried at once to her mother's room - and there she found her father, alone.
"This is your game, is it?" said he, looking down at her.


"You fool you! You were going to New York,--were you?" To this she vouchsafed no reply. "As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who was going with you?"

"You fool! You were going to New York? As if I hadn't found out all about it. Who was going with you?"


"If you have found out all about it, you know, papa."


"Of course I know;--but you don't know all about it, you little idiot."

"Of course I know; but you don't know all about it, you little idiot."


"No doubt I'm a fool and an idiot. You always say so."


"Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?" Then she opened her eyes and looked at him. "An hour ago he was in bed at his mother's house in Welbeck Street."

"Where do you suppose Sir Felix Carbury is now?" She looked at him. "An hour ago he was in bed at his mother's house in Welbeck Street."


"You don't, don't you? You'll find it true. If you had gone to New York, you'd have gone alone. If I'd known at first that he had stayed behind, I think I'd have let you go."

"Don't you? It's true. If you had gone to New York, you'd have gone alone."


"If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade. He is in London at this moment. What has become of the woman that went with you?"

"If you contradict me, I'll box your ears, you jade. He is in London at this moment. Where is Didon?"


"And where is the money you took from your mother?" Marie was silent. "Who got the cheque changed?"


"Then I'll be hanged if I don't prosecute him for stealing it."


"Oh, papa, don't do that;--pray don't do that. He didn't steal it. I only gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you back again."

"Oh, papa, don't do that. He didn't steal it. I only gave it him to take care of for us. He'll give it you back again."


"I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go to Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never attempt to marry him again if I don't prosecute him?" Marie considered. "Unless you do that I shall go to a magistrate at once."

"I shouldn't wonder if he lost it at cards, and therefore didn't go to Liverpool. Will you give me your word that you'll never try to marry him again if I don't prosecute him?"


"I don't believe you can do anything to him. He didn't steal it. I gave it to him."


"No, papa, I won't. What's the good of promising when I should only break it. Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the good of all the money if people don't have what they like?"

"No, papa. What's the good of making a promise when I should only break it? Why can't you let me have the man I love? What's the good of all the money if people don't have what they like?"


"All the money!--What do you know about the money? Look here," and he took her by the arm. "I've been very good to you. You've had your share of everything that has been going;--carriages and horses, bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves, and every thing else." He held her very hard and shook her as he spoke.

"All the money! What do you know about the money? Look here," and he took her by the arm and shook her. "I've been very good to you. You've had your share of everything; carriages and horses, bracelets and brooches, silks and gloves."


"Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I never asked for such things. I don't care a straw about bracelets and brooches."

"Let me go, papa; you hurt me. I don't care a straw about bracelets and brooches."


"Only for somebody to love me," said Marie, looking down.


"You'll soon have nobody to love you, if you go on this fashion. You've had everything done for you, and if you don't do something for me in return, by G---- you shall have a hard time of it. If you weren't such a fool you'd believe me when I say that I know more than you do."

"You'll soon have nobody to love you, if you go on this way. You've had everything done for you, and if you don't do something for me in return, by G__, you shall have a hard time of it. I know more than you do, you fool."


"You can't know better than me what'll make me happy."


"Do you think only of yourself? If you'll marry Lord Nidderdale you'll have a position in the world which nothing can take from you."


"Then I won't," said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till she cried, and calling for Madame Melmotte desired his wife not to let the girl for one minute out of her presence.

"Then I won't," said Marie firmly. Upon this he shook her till she cried, and calling for Madame Melmotte told her not to let the girl out of her presence.


The condition of Sir Felix was I think worse than that of the lady with whom he was to have run away. He had played at the Beargarden till four in the morning and had then left the club, on the breaking-up of the card-table, intoxicated and almost penniless. During the last half hour he had made himself very unpleasant at the club, saying all manner of harsh things of Miles Grendall;--of whom, indeed, it was almost impossible to say things too hard, had they been said in a proper form and at a proper time. He declared that Grendall would not pay his debts, that he had cheated when playing loo,--as to which Sir Felix appealed to Dolly Longestaffe; and he ended by asserting that Grendall ought to be turned out of the club. They had a desperate row. Dolly of course had said that he knew nothing about it, and Lord Grasslough had expressed an opinion that perhaps more than one person ought to be turned out. At four o'clock the party was broken up and Sir Felix wandered forth into the streets, with nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in his pocket. All his luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there he left it.

Sir Felix's condition was worse than Marie's. He had played at the Beargarden till four in the morning and had then left the club, intoxicated and almost penniless. During the last half hour at the club he had made himself very unpleasant, saying all manner of harsh things about Miles Grendall; declaring that he would not pay his debts, and that he cheated. There was a desperate row. At four o'clock Sir Felix wandered forth into the streets, with nothing more than the change of a ten pound note in his pocket. All his luggage was lying in the hall of the club, and there he left it.


There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felix wandering about the streets of London that night. Though he was nearly drunk, he was not drunk enough to forget the condition of his affairs. There is an intoxication that makes merry in the midst of affliction;--and there is an intoxication that banishes affliction by producing oblivion. But again there is an intoxication which is conscious of itself though it makes the feet unsteady, and the voice thick, and the brain foolish; and which brings neither mirth nor oblivion. Sir Felix trying to make his way to Welbeck Street and losing it at every turn, feeling himself to be an object of ridicule to every wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman, got no good at all out of his intoxication. What had he better do with himself? He fumbled in his pocket, and managed to get hold of his ticket for New York. Should he still make the journey? Then he thought of his luggage, and could not remember where it was. At last, as he steadied himself against a letter-post, he was able to call to mind that his portmanteaus were at the club. By this time he had wandered into Marylebone Lane, but did not in the least know where he was. But he made an attempt to get back to his club, and stumbled half down Bond Street. Then a policeman enquired into his purposes, and when he said that he lived in Welbeck Street, walked back with him as far as Oxford Street. Having once mentioned the place where he lived, he had not strength of will left to go back to his purpose of getting his luggage and starting for Liverpool.

There could hardly have been a more miserable wretch than Sir Felix wandering about the streets that night. He was not drunk enough to forget the condition of his affairs. He felt himself to be an object of ridicule to every wanderer, and of dangerous suspicion to every policeman. What had he better do?
He fumbled in his pocket for his ticket to New York. Should he still make the journey? Then he thought of his luggage, and could not remember where it was. At last he remembered that it was at the club, and tried to get back there, staggering down Bond Street. Then a policeman enquired into his purposes, and when he said that he lived in Welbeck Street, walked back with him to Oxford Street. He had not strength of will left to go back for his luggage and start for Liverpool.


Between six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck Street. He had tried his latch-key, but had found it inefficient. As he was supposed to be at Liverpool, the door had in fact been locked. At last it was opened by Lady Carbury herself. He had fallen more than once, and was soiled with the gutter. Most of my readers will not probably know how a man looks when he comes home drunk at six in the morning; but they who have seen the thing will acknowledge that a sorrier sight can not meet a mother's eye than that of a son in such a condition. "Oh, Felix!" she exclaimed.

Between six and seven he was knocking at the door in Welbeck Street. As he was supposed to be at Liverpool, the door had been locked. At last it was opened by Lady Carbury. He had fallen more than once, and was soiled with the gutter. A sorrier sight cannot meet a mother's eye than that of a son coming home drunk at six in the morning.
"Oh, Felix!" she exclaimed.


"Discovered, and be d---- to it! The old shap'sh stopped ush." Drunk as he was, he was able to lie. At that moment the "old shap" was fast asleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and Marie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab in the mews. "Bettersh go to bed." And so he stumbled up-stairs by daylight, the wretched mother helping him. She took off his clothes for him and his boots, and having left him already asleep, she went down to her own room, a miserable woman.

"Discovered, and be d___ to it! The old chap'sh stopped ush." Drunk as he was, he was able to lie. At that moment the "old chap" was fast asleep in Grosvenor Square, altogether ignorant of the plot; and Marie, joyful with excitement, was getting into the cab. "Bettersh go to bed." So he stumbled upstairs. His wretched mother took off his clothes and his boots, and having left him already asleep, she went to her own room, a miserable woman.


Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe, the squire of Caversham in Suffolk, and of Pickering Park in Sussex, was closeted on a certain morning for the best part of an hour with Mr. Melmotte in Abchurch Lane, had there discussed all his private affairs, and was about to leave the room with a very dissatisfied air. There are men,--and old men too, who ought to know the world,--who think that if they can only find the proper Medea to boil the cauldron for them, they can have their ruined fortunes so cooked that they shall come out of the pot fresh and new and unembarrassed. These great conjurors are generally sought for in the City; and in truth the cauldrons are kept boiling though the result of the process is seldom absolute rejuvenescence. No greater Medea than Mr. Melmotte had ever been potent in money matters, and Mr. Longestaffe had been taught to believe that if he could get the necromancer even to look at his affairs everything would be made right for him. But the necromancer had explained to the squire that property could not be created by the waving of any wand or the boiling of any cauldron. He, Mr. Melmotte, could put Mr. Longestaffe in the way of realising property without delay, of changing it from one shape into another, or could find out the real market value of the property in question; but he could create nothing. "You have only a life interest, Mr. Longestaffe."

Mr. Adolphus Longestaffe senior, the squire of Caversham, and of Pickering Park in Sussex, was closeted one morning for an hour with Mr. Melmotte in Abchurch Lane. He had discussed all his private affairs, and was about to leave the room with a very dissatisfied air. Mr. Longestaffe had believed that if he could get Mr. Melmotte just to look at his affairs everything would be made right for him. But Mr. Melmotte had explained that property could not be created by the waving of any wand. He could help Mr. Longestaffe to realise property, or could find out the real market value of the property in question; but he could create nothing.
"You have only a life interest, Mr. Longestaffe."


"No; only a life interest. That is customary with family estates in this country, Mr. Melmotte."

"That is customary with family estates in this country, Mr. Melmotte."


"Just so. And therefore you can dispose of nothing else. Your son, of course, could join you, and then you could sell either one estate or the other."


"There is no question of selling Caversham, sir. Lady Pomona and I reside there."


"Your son will not join you in selling the other place?"


"I have not directly asked him; but he never does do anything that I wish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease for my life."

"He never does anything that I wish. I suppose you would not take Pickering Park on a lease?"


"I think not, Mr. Longestaffe. My wife would not like the uncertainty."


Then Mr. Longestaffe took his leave with a feeling of outraged aristocratic pride. His own lawyer would almost have done as much for him, and he need not have invited his own lawyer as a guest to Caversham,--and certainly not his own lawyer's wife and daughter. He had indeed succeeded in borrowing a few thousand pounds from the great man at a rate of interest which the great man's head clerk was to arrange, and this had been effected simply on the security of the lease of a house in town. There had been an ease in this, an absence of that delay which generally took place between the expression of his desire for money and the acquisition of it,--and this had gratified him. But he was already beginning to think that he might pay too dearly for that gratification. At the present moment, too, Mr. Melmotte was odious to him for another reason. He had condescended to ask Mr. Melmotte to make him a director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, and he,--Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham,--had had his request refused! Mr. Longestaffe had condescended very low. "You have made Lord Alfred Grendall one!" he had said in a complaining tone. Then Mr. Melmotte explained that Lord Alfred possessed peculiar aptitudes for the position. "I'm sure I could do anything that he does," said Mr. Longestaffe. Upon this Mr. Melmotte, knitting his brows and speaking with some roughness, replied that the number of directors required was completed. Since he had had two duchesses at his house Mr. Melmotte was beginning to feel that he was entitled to bully any mere commoner, especially a commoner who could ask him for a seat at his board.

Mr. Longestaffe left with a feeling of outraged aristocratic pride. His own lawyer would almost have done as much for him, and he need not have invited his own lawyer as a guest to Caversham - and certainly not his lawyer's wife and daughter. He had indeed succeeded in borrowing a few thousand pounds from the great man at a rate of interest which the great man's head clerk was to arrange, on the security of the lease of a house in town. There had been an ease in this which had gratified him. But he was already beginning to think that he might pay too dearly for that gratification.
At present, Mr. Melmotte was odious to him for another reason. He had condescended to ask Mr. Melmotte to make him a director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway, and he, Adolphus Longestaffe of Caversham, had had his request refused!
"You have made Lord Alfred Grendall one!" he had complained. "I'm sure I could do anything that he does."
Mr. Melmotte, knitting his brows, had replied that the number of directors required was complete. Since he had had two duchesses at his house Mr. Melmotte was beginning to feel that he was entitled to bully any mere commoner, especially a commoner who could ask him for a seat at his board.


Mr. Longestaffe was a tall, heavy man, about fifty, with hair and whiskers carefully dyed, whose clothes were made with great care, though they always seemed to fit him too tightly, and who thought very much of his personal appearance. It was not that he considered himself handsome, but that he was specially proud of his aristocratic bearing. He entertained an idea that all who understood the matter would perceive at a single glance that he was a gentleman of the first water, and a man of fashion. He was intensely proud of his position in life, thinking himself to be immensely superior to all those who earned their bread. There were no doubt gentlemen of different degrees, but the English gentleman of gentlemen was he who had land, and family title-deeds, and an old family place, and family portraits, and family embarrassments, and a family absence of any useful employment. He was beginning even to look down upon peers, since so many men of much less consequence than himself had been made lords; and, having stood and been beaten three or four times for his county, he was of opinion that a seat in the House was rather a mark of bad breeding. He was a silly man, who had no fixed idea that it behoved him to be of use to any one; but, yet, he had compassed a certain nobility of feeling. There was very little that his position called upon him to do, but there was much that it forbad him to do. It was not allowed to him to be close in money matters. He could leave his tradesmen's bills unpaid till the men were clamorous, but he could not question the items in their accounts. He could be tyrannical to his servants, but he could not make inquiry as to the consumption of his wines in the servants' hall. He had no pity for his tenants in regard to game, but he hesitated much as to raising their rent. He had his theory of life and endeavoured to live up to it; but the attempt had hardly brought satisfaction to himself or to his family.

Mr. Longestaffe was a tall, heavy man, about fifty, with hair and whiskers carefully dyed, whose clothes were made with great care, though they always seemed too tight, and who thought very much of his personal appearance. He was especially proud of his aristocratic bearing. He had an idea that people could perceive at a single glance that he was a gentleman and a man of fashion. He thought himself to be immensely superior to all those who earned their bread. There were no doubt gentlemen of different degrees, but the greatest English gentleman was he who had land, an old family place, family portraits, and family debts, and a family absence of any useful employment. He was beginning even to look down upon peers, since so many men of much less consequence than himself had been made lords; and, having stood for Parliament unsuccessfully three or four times, he was of the opinion that a seat in the House was rather a mark of bad breeding.
He was a silly man; yet he had a certain nobility of feeling. He could leave his tradesmen's bills unpaid, but he could not question the items in their accounts. He could be tyrannical to his servants, but he could not inquire about the consumption of his wines in the servants' hall. He had no pity for his tenants if they poached game, but he hesitated much as to raising their rent. He had his theory of life and endeavoured to live up to it; but the attempt had hardly brought satisfaction to himself or to his family.


At the present moment, it was the great desire of his heart to sell the smaller of his two properties and disembarrass the other. The debt had not been altogether of his own making, and the arrangement would, he believed, serve his whole family as well as himself. It would also serve his son, who was blessed with a third property of his own which he had already managed to burden with debt. The father could not bear to be refused; and he feared that his son would decline. "But Adolphus wants money as much as any one," Lady Pomona had said. He had shaken his head and pished and pshawed. Women never could understand anything about money. Now he walked down sadly from Mr. Melmotte's office and was taken in his brougham to his lawyer's chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Even for the accommodation of those few thousand pounds he was forced to condescend to tell his lawyers that the title-deeds of his house in town must be given up. Mr. Longestaffe felt that the world in general was very hard on him.

It was now the great desire of his heart to sell the smaller of his two properties and free the other from debt. The arrangement would, he believed, serve his whole family, and also his son, who was blessed with a third property of his own which he had already managed to burden with debt. But the father feared that his son would decline.
Now he walked sadly from Mr. Melmotte's office and went to his lawyer's chambers. Even for those few thousand pounds he was forced to tell his lawyers that the title-deeds of his house in town must be given up. Mr. Longestaffe felt that the world was very hard on him.


"What on earth are we to do with them?" said Sophia, the eldest Miss Longestaffe, to her mother.

"What on earth are we to do with the Melmottes?" said Sophia, the eldest Miss Longestaffe, to her mother.


"I do think it's a shame of papa," said Georgiana, the second daughter. "I certainly shan't trouble myself to entertain them."


"Of course you will leave them all on my hands," said Lady Pomona wearily.


"But what's the use of having them?" urged Sophia. "I can understand going to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. One doesn't speak to them, and need not know them afterwards. As to the girl, I'm sure I shouldn't remember her if I were to see her."

"But what's the use of having them?" urged Sophia. "I can understand going to a crush at their house in town when everybody else goes. One doesn't speak to them, and need not know them afterwards. I'm sure I shouldn't remember the girl if I were to see her."


"It would be a fine thing if Adolphus would marry her," said Lady Pomona.


"Dolly will never marry anybody," said Georgiana. "The idea of his taking the trouble of asking a girl to have him! Besides, he won't come down to Caversham; cart-ropes wouldn't bring him. If that is to be the game, mamma, it is quite hopeless."

"Dolly will never marry anybody," said Georgiana. "The idea of his taking the trouble of asking a girl to have him! Besides, he won't come down to Caversham. If that is to be the game, mamma, it is quite hopeless."


"Why should Dolly marry such a creature as that?" asked Sophia.


"Because everybody wants money," said Lady Pomona. "I'm sure I don't know what your papa is to do, or how it is that there never is any money for anything. I don't spend it."

"Because everybody wants money," said Lady Pomona. "I'm sure I don't know why there is never any money for anything. I don't spend it."


"I don't think that we do anything out of the way," said Sophia. "I haven't the slightest idea what papa's income is; but if we're to live at all, I don't know how we are to make a change."


"It's always been like this ever since I can remember," said Georgiana, "and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I suppose it's just the same with other people, only one doesn't know it."

"It's been like this ever since I can remember," said Georgiana, "and I don't mean to worry about it any more. I suppose it's just the same with other people, only one doesn't know it.


"But, my dears--when we are obliged to have such people as these Melmottes!"

I suppose we shall only have these Melmottes


"As for that, if we didn't have them somebody else would. I shan't trouble myself about them. I suppose it will only be for two days."


"Then papa must take them about the country, that's all. I never did hear of anything so absurd. What good can they do papa by being down there?"

"Then papa must take them about the country, that's all. I never did hear of anything so absurd. What good can they do papa?"


"He is wonderfully rich," said Lady Pomona.


"But I don't suppose he'll give papa his money," continued Georgiana. "Of course I don't pretend to understand, but I think there is more fuss about these things than they deserve. If papa hasn't got money to live at home, why doesn't he go abroad for a year? The Sydney Beauchamps did that, and the girls had quite a nice time of it in Florence. It was there that Clara Beauchamp met young Lord Liffey. I shouldn't at all mind that kind of thing, but I think it quite horrible to have these sort of people brought down upon us at Caversham. No one knows who they are, or where they came from, or what they'll turn to." So spoke Georgiana, who among the Longestaffes was supposed to have the strongest head, and certainly the sharpest tongue.

"But I don't suppose he'll give papa his money," continued Georgiana. "If papa hasn't got money to live at home, why doesn't he go abroad for a year? The Sydney Beauchamps did that, and the girls had quite a nice time in Florence. Clara Beauchamp met young Lord Liffey there. I shouldn't at all mind that kind of thing, but I think it quite horrible to have these sort of people brought down upon us at Caversham. No one knows who they are." So spoke Georgiana, who among the Longestaffes was supposed to have the strongest head, and certainly the sharpest tongue.


This conversation took place in the drawing-room of the Longestaffes' family town-house in Bruton Street. It was not by any means a charming house, having but few of those luxuries and elegancies which have been added of late years to newly-built London residences. It was gloomy and inconvenient, with large drawing-rooms, bad bedrooms, and very little accommodation for servants. But it was the old family town-house, having been inhabited by three or four generations of Longestaffes, and did not savour of that radical newness which prevails, and which was peculiarly distasteful to Mr. Longestaffe. Queen's Gate and the quarters around were, according to Mr. Longestaffe, devoted to opulent tradesmen. Even Belgrave Square, though its aristocratic properties must be admitted, still smelt of the mortar. Many of those living there and thereabouts had never possessed in their families real family town-houses. The old streets lying between Piccadilly and Oxford Street, with one or two well-known localities to the south and north of these boundaries, were the proper sites for these habitations. When Lady Pomona, instigated by some friend of high rank but questionable taste, had once suggested a change to Eaton Square, Mr. Longestaffe had at once snubbed his wife. If Bruton Street wasn't good enough for her and the girls then they might remain at Caversham. The threat of remaining at Caversham had been often made, for Mr. Longestaffe, proud as he was of his town-house, was, from year to year, very anxious to save the expense of the annual migration. The girls' dresses and the girls' horses, his wife's carriage and his own brougham, his dull London dinner-parties, and the one ball which it was always necessary that Lady Pomona should give, made him look forward to the end of July, with more dread than to any other period. It was then that he began to know what that year's season would cost him. But he had never yet been able to keep his family in the country during the entire year. The girls, who as yet knew nothing of the Continent beyond Paris, had signified their willingness to be taken about Germany and Italy for twelve months, but had shown by every means in their power that they would mutiny against any intention on their father's part to keep them at Caversham during the London season.

This conversation took place in the drawing-room of the Longestaffes' London town-house in Bruton Street. It was by no means a charming house, being gloomy and inconvenient, with large drawing-rooms, bad bedrooms, and very little accommodation for servants. But three or four generations of Longestaffes had lived there. When Lady Pomona had once suggested a change to Eaton Square, Mr. Longestaffe had snubbed her. If Bruton Street wasn't good enough for her and the girls, then they might remain at Caversham.
The threat of remaining at Caversham was often made, for Mr. Longestaffe, proud as he was of his town-house, was very anxious to save the expense of the annual migration to London. The girls' dresses and horses, the carriages and dull London dinner-parties, and the one ball which it was always necessary to give, made him dread the season and its cost.
But he had never yet been able to keep his family in the country during the entire year. The girls were willing to be taken about Germany and Italy for twelve months, but had shown that they would mutiny against any attempt by their father to keep them at Caversham during the London season.


Georgiana had just finished her strong-minded protest against the Melmottes, when her brother strolled into the room. Dolly did not often show himself in Bruton Street. He had rooms of his own, and could seldom even be induced to dine with his family. His mother wrote to him notes without end,--notes every day, pressing invitations of all sorts upon him; would he come and dine; would he take them to the theatre; would he go to this ball; would he go to that evening-party? These Dolly barely read, and never answered. He would open them, thrust them into some pocket, and then forget them. Consequently his mother worshipped him; and even his sisters, who were at any rate superior to him in intellect, treated him with a certain deference. He could do as he liked, and they felt themselves to be slaves, bound down by the dulness of the Longestaffe regime. His freedom was grand to their eyes, and very enviable, although they were aware that he had already so used it as to impoverish himself in the midst of his wealth.

Georgiana had just finished her protest against the Melmottes, when her brother strolled into the room. Dolly did not often show himself in Bruton Street. He had rooms of his own, and could seldom even be induced to dine with his family. His mother wrote him notes asking, would he come and dine; would he take them to the theatre; would he go to this ball or that party? These Dolly barely read, and never answered. Consequently his mother worshipped him; and even his sisters, who were superior to him in intellect, treated him with deference. He was free to do as he liked, while they felt themselves to be slaves, bound down by the dull Longestaffe regime.


"My dear Adolphus," said the mother, "this is so nice of you."


"I think it is rather nice," said Dolly, submitting himself to be kissed.


"Oh Dolly, whoever would have thought of seeing you?" said Sophia.


"Give him some tea," said his mother. Lady Pomona was always having tea from four o'clock till she was taken away to dress for dinner.


"I'd sooner have soda and brandy," said Dolly.


"I didn't ask for it, and I don't expect to get it; indeed I don't want it. I only said I'd sooner have it than tea. Where's the governor?" They all looked at him with wondering eyes. There must be something going on more than they had dreamed of, when Dolly asked to see his father.

"I didn't ask for it. I only said I'd sooner have it than tea. Where's the governor?"
They looked at him with wondering eyes. There must be something going on when Dolly asked to see his father.


"Papa went out in the brougham immediately after lunch," said Sophia gravely.

"Papa went out after lunch," said Sophia gravely.


"I'll wait a little for him," said Dolly, taking out his watch.

"I'll wait for him," said Dolly, taking out his watch.


"Do stay and dine with us," said Lady Pomona.


"I could not do that, because I've got to go and dine with some fellow."

"No, I've got to go and dine with some fellow."


"Some fellow! I believe you don't know where you're going," said Georgiana.


"My fellow knows. At least he's a fool if he don't."


"Adolphus," began Lady Pomona very seriously, "I've got a plan and I want you to help me."


"I hope there isn't very much to do in it, mother."


"We're all going to Caversham, just for Whitsuntide, and we particularly want you to come."

We're all going to Caversham for Whitsuntide, and we particularly want you to come."


"You haven't heard half. Madame Melmotte and her daughter are coming."


"Dolly!" said Sophia, "do remember where you are."

"Dolly!" said Sophia, "remember where you are."


"Yes I will;--and I'll remember too where I won't be. I won't go to Caversham to meet old mother Melmotte."

"I won't go to Caversham to meet old mother Melmotte."


"My dear boy," continued the mother, "do you know that Miss Melmotte will have twenty--thousand--a year the day she marries; and that in all probability her husband will some day be the richest man in Europe?"

"My dear boy," continued the mother, "do you know that Miss Melmotte will have twenty thousand a year the day she marries; and that her husband will probably some day be the richest man in Europe?"


"Half the fellows in London are after her," said Dolly.


"She isn't going to stay in the same house with half the fellows in London," suggested Georgiana. "If you've a mind to try it you'll have a chance which nobody else can have just at present."

"She isn't going to stay in the same house with half the fellows in London," suggested Georgiana. "If you've a mind to try it you'll have a chance which nobody else can have."


"But I haven't any mind to try it. Good gracious me;--oh dear! it isn't at all in my way, mother."

"But I haven't any mind to try it. Good gracious me - it isn't at all in my way, mother."


"It would put everything so straight," said Lady Pomona.


"They'll have to remain crooked if nothing else will put them straight. There's the governor. I heard his voice. Now for a row." Then Mr. Longestaffe entered the room.

"There's the governor. I heard his voice. Now for a row."
Mr. Longestaffe entered the room.


"My dear," said Lady Pomona, "here's Adolphus come to see us." The father nodded his head at his son but said nothing. "We want him to stay and dine, but he's engaged."


"Though he doesn't know where," said Sophia.


"My fellow knows;--he keeps a book. I've got a letter, sir, ever so long, from those fellows in Lincoln's Inn. They want me to come and see you about selling something; so I've come. It's an awful bore, because I don't understand anything about it. Perhaps there isn't anything to be sold. If so I can go away again, you know."

"I've got a letter, sir," said Dolly, "ever so long, from those lawyer fellows. They want me to come and see you about selling something; so I've come. It's an awful bore, because I don't understand anything about it."


"You'd better come with me into the study," said the father. "We needn't disturb your mother and sisters about business." Then the squire led the way out of the room, and Dolly followed, making a woful grimace at his sisters. The three ladies sat over their tea for about half-an-hour, waiting,--not the result of the conference, for with that they did not suppose that they would be made acquainted,--but whatever signs of good or evil might be collected from the manner and appearance of the squire when he should return to them. Dolly they did not expect to see again,--probably for a month. He and the squire never did come together without quarrelling, and careless as was the young man in every other respect, he had hitherto been obdurate as to his own rights in any dealings which he had with his father. At the end of the half hour Mr. Longestaffe returned to the drawing-room, and at once pronounced the doom of the family. "My dear," he said, "we shall not return from Caversham to London this year." He struggled hard to maintain a grand dignified tranquillity as he spoke, but his voice quivered with emotion.

"You'd better come with me into the study," said the father. "We needn't disturb your mother and sisters about business."
The squire led the way out of the room, and Dolly followed, making a woeful grimace at his sisters. The three ladies sat over their tea for about half-an-hour, waiting for whatever signs of good or evil might be collected from the squire's manner when he should return to them. Dolly they did not expect to see again - probably for a month. He and the squire never met without quarrelling.
At the end of the half hour Mr. Longestaffe returned to the drawing-room, and at once pronounced the doom of the family.
"My dear," he said, "we shall not come back to London this year." He struggled hard to maintain a grand dignified tranquillity, but his voice quivered with emotion.


[Illustration: Then the squire led the way out of the room, and Dolly followed.]


"My dear, you don't mean it," said Lady Pomona.


"Of course papa doesn't mean it," said Georgiana rising to her feet.

"Of course papa doesn't mean it," said Georgiana, rising to her feet.


"I mean it accurately and certainly," said Mr. Longestaffe. "We go to Caversham in about ten days, and we shall not return from Caversham to London this year."

"Certainly I mean it," said Mr. Longestaffe. "We go to Caversham in about ten days, and we shall not return to London this year."


"Then it must be unfixed." So saying, the master of the house left the drawing-room and descended to his study.

"Then it must be unfixed." So saying, the master of the house left the drawing-room.


The three ladies, when left to deplore their fate, expressed their opinions as to the sentence which had been pronounced very strongly. But the daughters were louder in their anger than was their mother.

The three ladies expressed their opinions very strongly, the daughters more loudly than their mother.


"He does," said Lady Pomona, with tears in her eyes.


"He must unmean it again;--that's all," said Georgiana. "Dolly has said something to him very rough, and he resents it upon us. Why did he bring us up at all if he means to take us down before the season has begun?"

"Why did he bring us up to London at all," said Georgiana, "if he means to take us away before the season has begun?"


"I wonder what Adolphus has said to him. Your papa is always hard upon Adolphus."

"I wonder what Adolphus said to him. Your papa is always hard upon Adolphus."


"Dolly can take care of himself," said Georgiana, "and always does do so. Dolly does not care for us."

"Dolly can take care of himself," said Georgiana. "He does not care for us."


"I'll tell you what you must do, mamma. You mustn't stir from this at all. You must give up going to Caversham altogether, unless he promises to bring us back. I won't stir,--unless he has me carried out of the house."

"I'll tell you what you must do, mamma. You must give up going to Caversham, unless he promises to bring us back. I won't stir, unless he has me carried out of the house."


"Then I will. To go and be buried down in that place for a whole year with no one near us but the rusty old bishop and Mr. Carbury, who is rustier still. I won't stand it. There are some sort of things that one ought not to stand. If you go down I shall stay up with the Primeros. Mrs. Primero would have me I know. It wouldn't be nice of course. I don't like the Primeros. I hate the Primeros. Oh yes;--it's quite true; I know that as well as you, Sophia; they are vulgar; but not half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend Madame Melmotte."

"Then I will. To be buried down in that place for a whole year with no one near but the rusty old bishop and Mr. Carbury - I won't stand it. If you go there I shall stay in town with the Primeros. Mrs. Primero would have me, I know. It wouldn't be nice, of course. I don't like the Primeros. They are vulgar; but not half so vulgar, mamma, as your friend Madame Melmotte."


"That's ill-natured, Georgiana. She is not a friend of mine."


"But you're going to have her down at Caversham. I can't think what made you dream of going to Caversham just now, knowing as you do how hard papa is to manage."

"But you're going to have her down at Caversham. I can't think what made you dream of going to Caversham just now."


"Everybody has taken to going out of town at Whitsuntide, my dear."

"Everybody is going out of town at Whitsuntide, my dear."


"No, mamma; everybody has not. People understand too well the trouble of getting up and down for that. The Primeros aren't going down. I never heard of such a thing in all my life. What does he expect is to become of us? If he wants to save money why doesn't he shut Caversham up altogether and go abroad? Caversham costs a great deal more than is spent in London, and it's the dullest house, I think, in all England."

"No, mamma; everybody is not. The Primeros aren't. What does he expect is to become of us? If he wants to save money why doesn't he shut Caversham up altogether and go abroad? Caversham costs a great deal more than is spent in London, and it's the dullest house in all England."


The family party in Bruton Street that evening was not very gay. Nothing was being done, and they sat gloomily in each other's company. Whatever mutinous resolutions might be formed and carried out by the ladies of the family, they were not brought forward on that occasion. The two girls were quite silent, and would not speak to their father, and when he addressed them they answered simply by monosyllables. Lady Pomona was ill, and sat in a corner of a sofa, wiping her eyes. To her had been imparted up-stairs the purport of the conversation between Dolly and his father. Dolly had refused to consent to the sale of Pickering unless half the produce of the sale were to be given to him at once. When it had been explained to him that the sale would be desirable in order that the Caversham property might be freed from debt, which Caversham property would eventually be his, he replied that he also had an estate of his own which was a little mortgaged and would be the better for money. The result seemed to be that Pickering could not be sold,--and, as a consequence of that, Mr. Longestaffe had determined that there should be no more London expenses that year.

The family party in Bruton Street that evening was not very gay. The two girls were quite silent, and would not speak to their father. When he addressed them they answered simply by monosyllables.
Lady Pomona was ill, and sat in a corner of a sofa, wiping her eyes. She had been told the purport of the conversation between Dolly and his father. Dolly had refused to consent to the sale of Pickering unless half the proceeds were to be given to him at once. When it had been explained to him that the sale was to free the Caversham property from debt - and Caversham would eventually be his - he replied that he also had an estate of his own which would be the better for money.
The result seemed to be that Pickering could not be sold. In consequence, Mr. Longestaffe had determined that there should be no more London expenses that year.


The girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed his head, as was their custom. There was very little show of affection in the kiss. "You had better remember that what you have to do in town must be done this week," he said. They heard the words, but marched in stately silence out of the room without deigning to notice them.

The girls, when they got up to go to bed, bent over him and kissed his head with very little show of affection.
"You had better remember that anything you have to do in town must be done this week," he said. They heard the words, but marched out in stately silence.


Mr. Fisker was fully satisfied with the progress he had made, but he never quite succeeded in reconciling Paul Montague to the whole transaction. Mr. Melmotte was indeed so great a reality, such a fact in the commercial world of London, that it was no longer possible for such a one as Montague to refuse to believe in the scheme. Melmotte had the telegraph at his command, and had been able to make as close inquiries as though San Francisco and Salt Lake City had been suburbs of London. He was chairman of the British branch of the Company, and had had shares allocated to him,--or as he said to the house,--to the extent of two millions of dollars. But still there was a feeling of doubt, and a consciousness that Melmotte, though a tower of strength, was thought by many to have been built upon the sands.

Mr. Fisker was fully satisfied with his progress, but he never quite succeeded in reconciling Paul Montague to the transaction. Mr. Melmotte was indeed so great in the commercial world of London that Paul could no longer refuse to believe in the scheme. Melmotte had made close inquiries of San Francisco and Salt Lake City by telegraph. He was chairman of the British branch of the Company, and had shares allocated to him - he said - to the extent of two million dollars. But still Paul felt doubt, and was conscious that Melmotte, though a tower of strength, was thought by many to have been built upon the sands.


Paul had now of course given his full authority to the work, much in opposition to the advice of his old friend Roger Carbury,--and had come up to live in town, that he might personally attend to the affairs of the great railway. There was an office just behind the Exchange, with two or three clerks and a secretary, the latter position being held by Miles Grendall, Esq. Paul, who had a conscience in the matter and was keenly alive to the fact that he was not only a director but was also one of the firm of Fisker, Montague, and Montague which was responsible for the whole affair, was grievously anxious to be really at work, and would attend most inopportunely at the Company's offices. Fisker, who still lingered in London, did his best to put a stop to this folly, and on more than one occasion somewhat snubbed his partner. "My dear fellow, what's the use of your flurrying yourself? In a thing of this kind, when it has once been set agoing, there is nothing else to do. You may have to work your fingers off before you can make it move, and then fail. But all that has been done for you. If you go there on the Thursdays that's quite as much as you need do. You don't suppose that such a man as Melmotte would put up with any real interference." Paul endeavoured to assert himself, declaring that as one of the managers he meant to take a part in the management;--that his fortune, such as it was, had been embarked in the matter, and was as important to him as was Mr. Melmotte's fortune to Mr. Melmotte. But Fisker got the better of him and put him down. "Fortune! what fortune had either of us? a few beggarly thousands of dollars not worth talking of, and barely sufficient to enable a man to look at an enterprise. And now where are you? Look here, sir;--there's more to be got out of the smashing up of such an affair as this, if it should smash up, than could be made by years of hard work out of such fortunes as yours and mine in the regular way of trade."

Paul had now given his full consent to the work, against the advice of his old friend Roger Carbury, and had come to live in London, to attend to the affairs of the great railway. There was an office behind the Exchange, with two or three clerks and a secretary - the latter being Miles Grendall. Paul, who was keenly aware that he was not only a director but also one of the firm responsible for the whole affair, was very anxious to be really at work, and would arrive most inopportunely at the Company's offices. Fisker did his best to put a stop to this folly.
"My dear fellow," he said, "what's the use of flurrying yourself? Once a thing of this kind has been set agoing, there is nothing else to do. If you go there on Thursdays that's quite as much as you need do. A man such as Melmotte would not put up with any real interference."
Paul tried to assert himself, declaring that as one of the managers he meant to take a part in the management, his own fortune being at stake; but Fisker put him down.
"Fortune! what fortune had either of us? a few beggarly thousand dollars not worth talking of. And now where are you? Look here, sir; there's more to be made here than could be made by years of hard work in regular trade."


Paul Montague certainly did not love Mr. Fisker personally, nor did he relish his commercial doctrines; but he allowed himself to be carried away by them. "When and how was I to have helped myself?" he wrote to Roger Carbury. "The money had been raised and spent before this man came here at all. It's all very well to say that he had no right to do it; but he had done it. I couldn't even have gone to law with him without going over to California, and then I should have got no redress." Through it all he disliked Fisker, and yet Fisker had one great merit which certainly recommended itself warmly to Montague's appreciation. Though he denied the propriety of Paul's interference in the business, he quite acknowledged Paul's right to a share in the existing dash of prosperity. As to the real facts of the money affairs of the firm he would tell Paul nothing. But he was well provided with money himself, and took care that his partner should be in the same position. He paid him all the arrears of his stipulated income up to the present moment, and put him nominally into possession of a large number of shares in the railway,--with, however, an understanding that he was not to sell them till they had reached ten per cent. above par, and that in any sale transacted he was to touch no other money than the amount of profit which would thus accrue. What Melmotte was to be allowed to do with his shares, he never heard. As far as Montague could understand, Melmotte was in truth to be powerful over everything. All this made the young man unhappy, restless, and extravagant. He was living in London and had money at command, but he never could rid himself of the fear that the whole affair might tumble to pieces beneath his feet and that he might be stigmatised as one among a gang of swindlers.

Paul Montague allowed himself to be carried away by Fisker's arguments.
"How could I have helped myself?" he wrote to Roger Carbury. "The money had been raised and spent before this man came here at all. I couldn't have gone to law with him without going over to California, and then I should have got no redress." He disliked Fisker, and yet Fisker had one great merit: he quite acknowledged Paul's right to a share in the current dash of prosperity. As to the real facts of the firm's money affairs, he would tell Paul nothing. But he was well provided with money himself, and took care that Paul should be too. He paid him all the arrears of his income, and allocated him a large number of shares in the railway - with an understanding that he was not to sell them till they had reached ten per cent above par, and that in any sale he was to touch no other money than the accruing profit.
What Melmotte was to be allowed to do with his shares, Paul never heard. It seemed Melmotte was to be powerful over everything. All this made the young man unhappy, restless, and extravagant. He was living in London and had money at command, but he never could rid himself of the fear that the whole affair might tumble to pieces beneath his feet and that he might be stigmatised as a swindler.


We all know how, in such circumstances, by far the greater proportion of a man's life will be given up to the enjoyments that are offered to him and the lesser proportion to the cares, sacrifices, and sorrows. Had this young director been describing to his intimate friend the condition in which he found himself, he would have declared himself to be distracted by doubts, suspicions, and fears till his life was a burden to him. And yet they who were living with him at this time found him to be a very pleasant fellow, fond of amusement, and disposed to make the most of all the good things which came in his way. Under the auspices of Sir Felix Carbury he had become a member of the Beargarden, at which best of all possible clubs the mode of entrance was as irregular as its other proceedings. When any young man desired to come in who was thought to be unfit for its style of living, it was shown to him that it would take three years before his name could be brought up at the usual rate of vacancies; but in regard to desirable companions the committee had a power of putting them at the top of the list of candidates and bringing them in at once. Paul Montague had suddenly become credited with considerable commercial wealth and greater commercial influence. He sat at the same Board with Melmotte and Melmotte's men; and was on this account elected at the Beargarden without any of that harassing delay to which other less fortunate candidates are subjected.

Yet more of Paul's life was given up to enjoyments than to his cares and sorrows. Although he felt himself distracted by doubts, his associates found him to be a very pleasant fellow, fond of amusement and good living. Under the auspices of Sir Felix Carbury he had become a member of the Beargarden. The waiting list for that club was three years, but Paul Montague had suddenly become credited with commercial wealth and influence, and was elected at the Beargarden without any delay.


And,--let it be said with regret, for Paul Montague was at heart honest and well-conditioned,--he took to living a good deal at the Beargarden. A man must dine somewhere, and everybody knows that a man dines cheaper at his club than elsewhere. It was thus he reasoned with himself. But Paul's dinners at the Beargarden were not cheap. He saw a good deal of his brother directors, Sir Felix Carbury and Lord Nidderdale, entertained Lord Alfred more than once at the club, and had twice dined with his great chairman amidst all the magnificence of merchant-princely hospitality in Grosvenor Square. It had indeed been suggested to him by Mr. Fisker that he also ought to enter himself for the great Marie Melmotte plate. Lord Nidderdale had again declared his intention of running, owing to considerable pressure put upon him by certain interested tradesmen, and with this intention had become one of the directors of the Mexican Railway Company. At the time, however, of which we are now writing, Sir Felix was the favourite for the race among fashionable circles generally.

And - let it be said with regret, for Paul Montague was at heart honest and well-conditioned - he took to living a good deal at the Beargarden. A man must dine somewhere, and he reasoned that a man dines cheaper at his club than elsewhere. But Paul's dinners at the Beargarden were not cheap. He saw a good deal of his brother directors, Sir Felix Carbury and Lord Nidderdale, entertained Lord Alfred at the club, and had twice dined with his great chairman amidst the magnificence of Grosvenor Square.
Mr. Fisker suggested to him that he ought to enter himself for the great Marie Melmotte plate. Lord Nidderdale had again declared his intention of running, owing to pressure put upon him by certain tradesmen, and with this intention had become one of the directors of the Mexican Railway Company. However, Sir Felix was the favourite for the race among fashionable circles.


The middle of April had come, and Fisker was still in London. When millions of dollars are at stake,--belonging perhaps to widows and orphans, as Fisker remarked,--a man was forced to set his own convenience on one side. But this devotion was not left without reward, for Mr. Fisker had "a good time" in London. He also was made free of the Beargarden, as an honorary member, and he also spent a good deal of money. But there is this comfort in great affairs, that whatever you spend on yourself can be no more than a trifle. Champagne and ginger-beer are all the same when you stand to win or lose thousands,--with this only difference, that champagne may have deteriorating results which the more innocent beverage will not produce. The feeling that the greatness of these operations relieved them from the necessity of looking to small expenses operated in the champagne direction, both on Fisker and Montague, and the result was deleterious. The Beargarden, no doubt, was a more lively place than Carbury Manor, but Montague found that he could not wake up on these London mornings with thoughts as satisfactory as those which attended his pillow at the old Manor House.

By the middle of April Fisker was still in London. He was made an honorary member of the Beargarden, and spent a good deal of money. But champagne and ginger-beer are all the same when you stand to win or lose thousands. The feeling that they need not worry about small expenses led both Fisker and Montague in the champagne direction; and the result was damaging. Montague found that he could not wake up on these London mornings with thoughts as satisfactory as those which had attended him at Carbury Manor.


On Saturday, the 19th of April, Fisker was to leave London on his return to New York, and on the 18th a farewell dinner was to be given to him at the club. Mr. Melmotte was asked to meet him, and on such an occasion all the resources of the club were to be brought forth. Lord Alfred Grendall was also to be a guest, and Mr. Cohenlupe, who went about a good deal with Melmotte. Nidderdale, Carbury, Montague, and Miles Grendall were members of the club, and gave the dinner. No expense was spared. Herr Vossner purveyed the viands and wines,--and paid for them. Lord Nidderdale took the chair, with Fisker on his right hand, and Melmotte on his left, and, for a fast-going young lord, was supposed to have done the thing well. There were only two toasts drunk, to the healths of Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Fisker, and two speeches were of course made by them. Mr. Melmotte may have been held to have clearly proved the genuineness of that English birth which he claimed by the awkwardness and incapacity which he showed on the occasion. He stood with his hands on the table and with his face turned to his plate blurted out his assurance that the floating of this railway company would be one of the greatest and most successful commercial operations ever conducted on either side of the Atlantic. It was a great thing,--a very great thing;--he had no hesitation in saying that it was one of the greatest things out. He didn't believe a greater thing had ever come out. He was happy to give his humble assistance to the furtherance of so great a thing,--and so on. These assertions, not varying much one from the other, he jerked out like so many separate interjections, endeavouring to look his friends in the face at each, and then turning his countenance back to his plate as though seeking for inspiration for the next attempt. He was not eloquent; but the gentlemen who heard him remembered that he was the great Augustus Melmotte, that he might probably make them all rich men, and they cheered him to the echo. Lord Alfred had reconciled himself to be called by his Christian name, since he had been put in the way of raising two or three hundred pounds on the security of shares which were to be allotted to him, but of which in the flesh he had as yet seen nothing. Wonderful are the ways of trade! If one can only get the tip of one's little finger into the right pie, what noble morsels, what rich esculents, will stick to it as it is extracted!

On the 19th of April, Fisker was to leave London for New York, and on the 18th a farewell dinner was to be given to him at the club. Mr. Melmotte was asked to meet him; Lord Alfred Grendall was also to be a guest, and Mr. Cohenlupe, who went about a good deal with Melmotte. Nidderdale, Carbury, Montague, and Miles Grendall, as members of the club, gave the dinner.
No expense was spared. Herr Vossner provided the food and wines. There were two toasts drunk, to the healths of Mr. Melmotte and Mr. Fisker, and speeches were made by them. Mr. Melmotte perhaps proved the genuineness of his English birth by the awkwardness he showed. He stood with his hands on the table, and with his face turned to his plate blurted out his assurance that the floating of this railway company would be one of the greatest commercial operations ever conducted on either side of the Atlantic. It was a great thing - a very great thing; it was one of the greatest things ever. He didn't believe a greater thing had ever come out. He was happy to give his humble assistance to the furtherance of so great a thing - and so on. He was not eloquent; but the gentlemen who heard him remembered that he might make them all rich men, and they cheered.


When Melmotte sat down Fisker made his speech, and it was fluent, fast, and florid. Without giving it word for word, which would be tedious, I could not adequately set before the reader's eye the speaker's pleasing picture of world-wide commercial love and harmony which was to be produced by a railway from Salt Lake City to Vera Cruz, nor explain the extent of gratitude from the world at large which might be claimed by, and would finally be accorded to, the great firms of Melmotte & Co. of London, and Fisker, Montague, and Montague of San Francisco. Mr. Fisker's arms were waved gracefully about. His head was turned now this way and now that, but never towards his plate. It was very well done. But there was more faith in one ponderous word from Mr. Melmotte's mouth than in all the American's oratory.

When Melmotte sat down Fisker made his speech, and it was fluent, fast, and florid. But the listeners had more faith in one ponderous word from Mr. Melmotte than in all the American's oratory.


There was not one of them then present who had not after some fashion been given to understand that his fortune was to be made, not by the construction of the railway, but by the floating of the railway shares. They had all whispered to each other their convictions on this head. Even Montague did not beguile himself into an idea that he was really a director in a company to be employed in the making and working of a railway. People out of doors were to be advertised into buying shares, and they who were so to say indoors were to have the privilege of manufacturing the shares thus to be sold. That was to be their work, and they all knew it. But now, as there were eight of them collected together, they talked of humanity at large and of the coming harmony of nations.

All those present by now understood that their fortunes were to be made, not by the construction of the railway, but by the floating of the railway shares. Even Montague did not beguile himself into an idea that he was really employed in the making and working of a railway. They were in the business of manufacturing shares to be sold. That was to be their work, and they all knew it. But the eight of them talked of humanity at large and of the coming harmony of nations.


After the first cigar, Melmotte withdrew, and Lord Alfred went with him. Lord Alfred would have liked to remain, being a man who enjoyed tobacco and soda and brandy,--but momentous days had come upon him, and he thought it well to cling to his Melmotte. Mr. Samuel Cohenlupe also went, not having taken a very distinguished part in the entertainment. Then the young men were left alone, and it was soon proposed that they should adjourn to the cardroom. It had been rather hoped that Fisker would go with the elders. Nidderdale, who did not understand much about the races of mankind, had his doubts whether the American gentleman might not be a "Heathen Chinee," such as he had read of in poetry. But Mr. Fisker liked to have his amusement as well as did the others, and went up resolutely into the cardroom. Here they were joined by Lord Grasslough, and were very quickly at work, having chosen loo as their game. Mr. Fisker made an allusion to poker as a desirable pastime, but Lord Nidderdale, remembering his poetry, shook his head. "Oh! bother," he said, "let's have some game that Christians play." Mr. Fisker declared himself ready for any game,--irrespective of religious prejudices.

After the first cigar, Melmotte withdrew, and Lord Alfred went with him. Lord Alfred would have liked to remain to enjoy the tobacco and soda and brandy, but he thought it well to cling to his benefactor Melmotte. Mr. Samuel Cohenlupe also went. The young men were left alone, and it was soon proposed that they should adjourn to the cardroom. Mr. Fisker went with them, and they were joined by Lord Grasslough, and were very quickly playing loo.


It must be explained that the gambling at the Beargarden had gone on with very little interruption, and that on the whole Sir Felix Carbury kept his luck. There had of course been vicissitudes, but his star had been in the ascendant. For some nights together this had been so continual that Mr. Miles Grendall had suggested to his friend Lord Grasslough that there must be foul play. Lord Grasslough, who had not many good gifts, was, at least, not suspicious, and repudiated the idea. "We'll keep an eye on him," Miles Grendall had said. "You may do as you like, but I'm not going to watch any one," Grasslough had replied. Miles had watched, and had watched in vain, and it may as well be said at once that Sir Felix, with all his faults, was not as yet a blackleg. Both of them now owed Sir Felix a considerable sum of money, as did also Dolly Longestaffe, who was not present on this occasion. Latterly very little ready money had passed hands,--very little in proportion to the sums which had been written down on paper,--though Sir Felix was still so well in funds as to feel himself justified in repudiating any caution that his mother might give him.

During the recent gambling at the Beargarden, on the whole Sir Felix Carbury had kept his luck. This luck had been so continual that Miles Grendall had suggested to his friend Lord Grasslough that there must be foul play. Lord Grasslough, though he had not many good gifts, was at least not suspicious, and rejected the idea.
"We'll keep an eye on him," Miles Grendall had said.
"You may do as you like, but I'm not going to watch anyone," Grasslough had replied.
Miles had watched in vain, and it may as well be said at once that Sir Felix, with all his faults, was not a cheat. Both of them now owed Sir Felix a considerable sum of money, as did Dolly Longestaffe. Very little ready money had passed hands, compared to the sums which had been written down on paper.


When I.O.U.'s have for some time passed freely in such a company as that now assembled the sudden introduction of a stranger is very disagreeable, particularly when that stranger intends to start for San Francisco on the following morning. If it could be arranged that the stranger should certainly lose, no doubt then he would be regarded as a godsend. Such strangers have ready money in their pockets, a portion of which would be felt to descend like a soft shower in a time of drought. When these dealings in unsecured paper have been going on for a considerable time real bank notes come to have a loveliness which they never possessed before. But should the stranger win, then there may arise complications incapable of any comfortable solution. In such a state of things some Herr Vossner must be called in, whose terms are apt to be ruinous. On this occasion things did not arrange themselves comfortably. From the very commencement Fisker won, and quite a budget of little papers fell into his possession, many of which were passed to him from the hands of Sir Felix,--bearing, however, a "G" intended to stand for Grasslough, or an "N" for Nidderdale, or a wonderful hieroglyphic which was known at the Beargarden to mean D. L----, or Dolly Longestaffe, the fabricator of which was not present on the occasion. Then there was the M. G. of Miles Grendall, which was a species of paper peculiarly plentiful and very unattractive on these commercial occasions. Paul Montague hitherto had never given an I.O.U. at the Beargarden,--nor of late had our friend Sir Felix. On the present occasion Montague won, though not heavily. Sir Felix lost continually, and was almost the only loser. But Mr. Fisker won nearly all that was lost. He was to start for Liverpool by train at 8.30 A.M., and at 6 A.M. he counted up his bits of paper and found himself the winner of about 600. "I think that most of them came from you, Sir Felix," he said,--handing the bundle across the table.

When I.O.U.'s have for some time passed freely in such a company, the sudden introduction of a stranger is very disagreeable, particularly when that stranger intends to start for San Francisco the next morning. Should the stranger win, then there may arise complications which have no comfortable solution. In such a state of things Herr Vossner must be called in to loan them cash at ruinous rates.
On this occasion things did not arrange themselves comfortably. From the start Fisker won, and quite a pile of little papers fell into his possession, many of which were passed to him from the hands of Sir Felix - bearing, however, a "G" for Grasslough, or an "N" for Nidderdale, or a wonderful hieroglyphic which was known at the Beargarden to mean D.L. for Dolly Longestaffe, who was not present. And then there were plentiful M.G.s of Miles Grendall.
Paul Montague up to now had never given an I.O.U. On this night he won, though not heavily. Sir Felix lost continually. But Mr. Fisker won nearly all that was lost. He was to start for Liverpool by train at 8.30 a.m., and at 6 a.m. he counted up his bits of paper and found himself the winner of about 600. "I think that most of them came from you, Sir Felix," he said, handing the bundle across the table.


"I dare say they did, but they are all good against these other fellows." Then Fisker, with most perfect good humour, extracted one from the mass which indicated Dolly Longestaffe's indebtedness to the amount of 50. "That's Longestaffe," said Felix, "and I'll change that of course." Then out of his pocket-book he extracted other minute documents bearing that M. G. which was so little esteemed among them,--and so made up the sum. "You seem to have 150 from Grasslough, 145 from Nidderdale, and 322 10_s._ from Grendall," said the baronet. Then Sir Felix got up as though he had paid his score. Fisker, with smiling good humour, arranged the little bits of paper before him and looked round upon the company.

"I dare say they did, but they are all good against these other fellows."
Fisker, with perfect good humour, extracted one from the mass which indicated that Dolly Longestaffe owed 50.
"That's Longestaffe," said Felix, "and I'll change that of course." Out of his pocket-book he extracted other minute documents bearing "M.G.", and so made up the sum.
"You seem to have 150 from Grasslough, 145 from Nidderdale, and 322 10s. from Grendall," said Sir Felix, and he got up as though he had paid his score. Fisker, with smiling good humour, arranged the little bits of paper before him and looked round upon the company.


"This won't do, you know," said Nidderdale. "Mr. Fisker must have his money before he leaves. You've got it, Carbury."


"As it happens I have not," said Sir Felix;--"but what if I had?"

"As it happens I have not," said Sir Felix; "but what if I had?"


"Mr. Fisker starts for New York immediately," said Lord Nidderdale. "I suppose we can muster 600 among us. Ring the bell for Vossner. I think Carbury ought to pay the money as he lost it, and we didn't expect to have our I.O.U.'s brought up in this way."


"Lord Nidderdale," said Sir Felix, "I have already said that I have not got the money about me. Why should I have it more than you, especially as I knew I had I.O.U.'s more than sufficient to meet anything I could lose when I sat down?"


"Mr. Fisker must have his money at any rate," said Lord Nidderdale, ringing the bell again.


"It doesn't matter one straw, my lord," said the American. "Let it be sent to me to Frisco, in a bill, my lord." And so he got up to take his hat, greatly to the delight of Miles Grendall.

"It doesn't matter one straw, my lord," said the American. "Let it be sent to me to Frisco, in a bill, my lord." And he got up to take his hat, greatly to the delight of Miles Grendall.