Felix, when he left his mother, went down to the only club to which he now belonged. Clubs are pleasant resorts in all respects but one. They require ready money, or even worse than that in respect to annual payments,--money in advance; and the young baronet had been absolutely forced to restrict himself. He, as a matter of course, out of those to which he had possessed the right of entrance, chose the worst. It was called the Beargarden, and had been lately opened with the express view of combining parsimony with profligacy. Clubs were ruined, so said certain young parsimonious profligates, by providing comforts for old fogies who paid little or nothing but their subscriptions, and took out by their mere presence three times as much as they gave. This club was not to be opened till three o'clock in the afternoon, before which hour the promoters of the Beargarden thought it improbable that they and their fellows would want a club. There were to be no morning papers taken, no library, no morning-room. Dining-rooms, billiard-rooms, and card-rooms would suffice for the Beargarden. Everything was to be provided by a purveyor, so that the club should be cheated only by one man. Everything was to be luxurious, but the luxuries were to be achieved at first cost. It had been a happy thought, and the club was said to prosper. Herr Vossner, the purveyor, was a jewel, and so carried on affairs that there was no trouble about anything. He would assist even in smoothing little difficulties as to the settling of card accounts, and had behaved with the greatest tenderness to the drawers of cheques whose bankers had harshly declared them to have "no effects." Herr Vossner was a jewel, and the Beargarden was a success. Perhaps no young man about town enjoyed the Beargarden more thoroughly than did Sir Felix Carbury. The club was in the close vicinity of other clubs, in a small street turning out of St. James's Street, and piqued itself on its outward quietness and sobriety. Why pay for stone-work for other people to look at;--why lay out money in marble pillars and cornices, seeing that you can neither eat such things, nor drink them, nor gamble with them? But the Beargarden had the best wines,--or thought that it had,--and the easiest chairs, and two billiard-tables than which nothing more perfect had ever been made to stand upon legs. Hither Sir Felix wended on that January afternoon as soon as he had his mother's cheque for 20 in his pocket.

Felix, when he left his mother, went down to the only club to which he now belonged. Clubs require money; and the young baronet, forced to restrict himself to one, chose the worst. It was called the Beargarden, and had been lately opened with the express view of combining parsimony with profligacy.
This club did not open till three o'clock in the afternoon. There were no morning papers taken, no library, no morning-room. Dining-rooms, billiard-rooms, and card-rooms would suffice for the Beargarden. Everything was luxurious, and the club was said to prosper. Herr Vossner, the purveyor, carried on affairs so that there was no trouble about anything, smoothing any little difficulties in the settling of accounts.
Perhaps no young man about town enjoyed the Beargarden more thoroughly than Sir Felix Carbury. The club was close to other clubs, in a small street off St. James's Street, and outwardly sober. Why pay for marble pillars and cornices, when you can neither eat such things, nor drink them, nor gamble with them? But the Beargarden had the best wines - or thought that it had - and the easiest chairs, and two perfect billiard-tables. Hither Sir Felix went with his mother's cheque for 20 in his pocket.


He found his special friend, Dolly Longestaffe, standing on the steps with a cigar in his mouth, and gazing vacantly at the dull brick house opposite. "Going to dine here, Dolly?" said Sir Felix.

He found his friend, Adolphus "Dolly" Longestaffe, standing on the steps with a cigar in his mouth, and gazing vacantly at the brick house opposite.
"Going to dine here, Dolly?" said Sir Felix.


"I suppose I shall, because it's such a lot of trouble to go anywhere else. I'm engaged somewhere, I know; but I'm not up to getting home and dressing. By George! I don't know how fellows do that kind of thing. I can't."

"I suppose I shall, because it's such a lot of trouble to go anywhere else. I'm engaged somewhere, I know; but I'm not up to getting home and dressing."


"Well, yes; but I don't suppose I shall. I was going to hunt every day last week, but my fellow never would get me up in time. I can't tell why it is that things are done in such a beastly way. Why shouldn't fellows begin to hunt at two or three, so that a fellow needn't get up in the middle of the night?"

"Well, yes; but I don't suppose I shall. I was going to hunt every day last week, but my fellow never would get me up in time. Why can't fellows hunt at two or three, so that a fellow needn't get up in the middle of the night?


"Because one can't ride by moonlight, Dolly."


"It isn't moonlight at three. At any rate I can't get myself to Euston Square by nine. I don't think that fellow of mine likes getting up himself. He says he comes in and wakes me, but I never remember it."

I can't get myself to Euston Square by nine. That fellow of mine says he comes in and wakes me, but I never remember it."


"How many horses have you got at Leighton, Dolly?"


"How many? There were five, but I think that fellow down there sold one; but then I think he bought another. I know he did something."

"There were five, but I think that fellow down there sold one; but maybe he bought another. I know he did something."


"He does, I suppose. That is, of course, I ride them myself, only I so seldom get down. Somebody told me that Grasslough was riding two of them last week. I don't think I ever told him he might. I think he tipped that fellow of mine; and I call that a low kind of thing to do. I'd ask him, only I know he'd say that I had lent them. Perhaps I did when I was tight, you know."

"He does, I suppose. Somebody told me that Grasslough was riding two of them last week. I think he tipped that fellow of mine; I call that a low thing to do. I'd ask him, only I know he'd say that I had lent them. Perhaps I did when I was tight, you know."


"I don't like him a bit. He gives himself airs because he is a lord, and is devilish ill-natured. I don't know why he should want to ride my horses."

"I don't like him. He gives himself airs, and


"He isn't hard up. Why doesn't he have his own horses? I'll tell you what, Carbury, I've made up my mind to one thing, and, by Jove, I'll stick to it. I never will lend a horse again to anybody. If fellows want horses let them buy them."

he isn't hard up. Why doesn't he have his own horses? I'll tell you what, Carbury, I've made up my mind, by Jove. I never will lend a horse again to anybody. If fellows want horses let them buy them."


"But some fellows haven't got any money, Dolly."


"Then they ought to go tick. I don't think I've paid for any of mine I've bought this season. There was somebody here yesterday--"

"Then they ought to go on tick. I don't think I've paid for any of mine I've bought this season. There was somebody here yesterday


"Yes; followed me here to say he wanted to be paid for something! It was horses, I think, because of the fellow's trousers."

- followed me here to say he wanted to be paid for something! It was horses, I think, because of the fellow's trousers."


"When he'd done talking I offered him a cigar, and while he was biting off the end I went up-stairs. I suppose he went away when he was tired of waiting."

I offered him a cigar, and went upstairs. I suppose he left when he was tired of waiting."


"I'll tell you what, Dolly; I wish you'd let me ride two of yours for a couple of days,--that is, of course, if you don't want them yourself. You ain't tight now, at any rate."

"I'll tell you what, Dolly;" said Sir Felix, "I wish you'd let me ride two of yours for a couple of days - that is, if you don't want them yourself.


"No; I ain't tight," said Dolly, with melancholy acquiescence.


"I mean that I wouldn't like to borrow your horses without your remembering all about it. Nobody knows as well as you do how awfully done up I am. I shall pull through at last, but it's an awful squeeze in the meantime. There's nobody I'd ask such a favour of except you."

You know how awfully done up I am. I shall pull through, but it's an awful squeeze in the meantime."


"Well, you may have them;--that is, for two days. I don't know whether that fellow of mine will believe you. He wouldn't believe Grasslough, and told him so. But Grasslough took them out of the stables. That's what somebody told me."

"Well, you may have them for two days. I don't know whether that fellow of mine will believe you. He wouldn't believe Grasslough, but Grasslough took them anyway."


"Oh, my dear fellow, that is such a bore; I don't think I could do that. My fellow will believe you, because you and I have been pals. I think I'll have a little drop of curaoa before dinner. Come along and try it. It'll give us an appetite."

"Oh, my dear fellow, that is such a bore; I don't think I could do that. My fellow will believe you, because you and I have been pals. I think I'll have a little drop of curaao before dinner. Come and try it."


It was then nearly seven o'clock. Nine hours afterwards the same two men, with two others,--of whom young Lord Grasslough, Dolly Longestaffe's peculiar aversion, was one,--were just rising from a card-table in one of the up-stairs rooms of the club. For it was understood that, though the Beargarden was not to be open before three o'clock in the afternoon, the accommodation denied during the day was to be given freely during the night. No man could get a breakfast at the Beargarden, but suppers at three o'clock in the morning were quite within the rule. Such a supper, or rather succession of suppering, there had been to-night, various devils and broils and hot toasts having been brought up from time to time first for one and then for another. But there had been no cessation of gambling since the cards had first been opened about ten o'clock. At four in the morning Dolly Longestaffe was certainly in a condition to lend his horses and to remember nothing about it. He was quite affectionate with Lord Grasslough, as he was also with his other companions,--affection being the normal state of his mind when in that condition. He was by no means helplessly drunk, and was, perhaps, hardly more silly than when he was sober; but he was willing to play at any game whether he understood it or not, and for any stakes. When Sir Felix got up and said he would play no more, Dolly also got up, apparently quite contented. When Lord Grasslough, with a dark scowl on his face, expressed his opinion that it was not just the thing for men to break up like that when so much money had been lost, Dolly as willingly sat down again. But Dolly's sitting down was not sufficient. "I'm going to hunt to-morrow," said Sir Felix,--meaning that day,--"and I shall play no more. A man must go to bed at some time."

It was then nearly seven o'clock. Nine hours afterwards the same two men, with two others - including Lord Grasslough - were just rising from a card-table in one of the upstairs rooms of the club. For while no man could get a breakfast at the Beargarden, suppers at three o'clock in the morning were quite within the rule.
At four in the morning Dolly Longestaffe was certainly in a condition to lend his horses and to remember nothing about it. He was quite affectionate with Lord Grasslough and his other companions. He was by no means helplessly drunk, and was, perhaps, hardly more silly than when he was sober; but he was willing to play at any game whether he understood it or not, and for any stakes. When Sir Felix got up and said he would play no more, Dolly also got up. Lord Grasslough, with a dark scowl, said that it was not the thing for men to stop when so much money had been lost; at which Dolly as willingly sat down again.
"I'm going to hunt tomorrow," said Sir Felix - meaning that day - "and I shall play no more. A man must go to bed at some time."


"I don't see it at all," said Lord Grasslough. "It's an understood thing that when a man has won as much as you have he should stay."

"When a man has won as much as you have, he should stay," said Lord Grasslough.


"Stay how long?" said Sir Felix, with an angry look. "That's nonsense; there must be an end of everything, and there's an end of this for me to-night."

"Stay how long?" said Sir Felix angrily. "That's nonsense. There's an end of this for me tonight."


"I do choose. Good night, Dolly; we'll settle this next time we meet. I've got it all entered."

"I do choose. Good night, Dolly; we'll settle next time we meet. I've got it all entered."


The night had been one very serious in its results to Sir Felix. He had sat down to the card-table with the proceeds of his mother's cheque, a poor 20, and now he had,--he didn't at all know how much in his pockets. He also had drunk, but not so as to obscure his mind. He knew that Longestaffe owed him over 800, and he knew also that he had received more than that in ready money and cheques from Lord Grasslough and the other player. Dolly Longestaffe's money, too, would certainly be paid, though Dolly did complain of the importunity of his tradesmen. As he walked up St. James's Street, looking for a cab, he presumed himself to be worth over 700. When begging for a small sum from Lady Carbury, he had said that he could not carry on the game without some ready money, and had considered himself fortunate in fleecing his mother as he had done. Now he was in the possession of wealth,--of wealth that might, at any rate, be sufficient to aid him materially in the object he had in hand. He never for a moment thought of paying his bills. Even the large sum of which he had become so unexpectedly possessed would not have gone far with him in such a quixotic object as that; but he could now look bright, and buy presents, and be seen with money in his hands. It is hard even to make love in these days without something in your purse.

Sir Felix had sat down to the card-table with his mother's 20, and now he had - he didn't know how much. He knew that Dolly Longestaffe owed him over 800, and he had received more than that in ready money and cheques from Lord Grasslough and the other player. As Sir Felix walked up St. James's Street, looking for a cab, he presumed himself to be worth over 700.
Now that he was in the possession of wealth, he never for a moment thought of paying his bills. Even the large sum which he now so unexpectedly possessed would not have gone far in that; but he could now look bright, and buy presents. It is hard to make love without something in your purse.


He found no cab, but in his present frame of mind was indifferent to the trouble of walking home. There was something so joyous in the feeling of the possession of all this money that it made the night air pleasant to him. Then, of a sudden, he remembered the low wail with which his mother had spoken of her poverty when he demanded assistance from her. Now he could give her back the 20. But it occurred to him sharply, with an amount of carefulness quite new to him, that it would be foolish to do so. How soon might he want it again? And, moreover, he could not repay the money without explaining to her how he had gotten it. It would be preferable to say nothing about his money. As he let himself into the house and went up to his room he resolved that he would not say anything about it.

He found no cab, but there was something so joyous in possessing all this money that it made walking in the night air pleasant. Suddenly he remembered the low wail with which his mother had spoken of her poverty. Now he could give her back the 20. But it occurred to him that it would be foolish to do so. How soon might he want it again? Moreover, he could not repay the money without explaining to her how he had got it. As he let himself into the house he resolved that he would not say anything about it.


On that morning he was at the station at nine, and hunted down in Buckinghamshire, riding two of Dolly Longestaffe's horses,--for the use of which he paid Dolly Longestaffe's "fellow" thirty shillings.

That morning he was at the station at nine, and went hunting down in Buckinghamshire, riding two of Dolly Longestaffe's horses - for the use of which he paid Dolly's "fellow" thirty shillings.


It was a long time now since Lady Carbury's great historical work on the Criminal Queens of the World had been completed and given to the world. Any reader careful as to dates will remember that it was as far back as in February that she had solicited the assistance of certain of her literary friends who were connected with the daily and weekly press. These gentlemen had responded to her call with more or less zealous aid, so that the "Criminal Queens" had been regarded in the trade as one of the successful books of the season. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter had published a second, and then, very quickly, a fourth and fifth edition; and had been able in their advertisements to give testimony from various criticisms showing that Lady Carbury's book was about the greatest historical work which had emanated from the press in the present century. With this object a passage was extracted even from the columns of the "Evening Pulpit,"--which showed very great ingenuity on the part of some young man connected with the establishment of Messrs. Leadham and Loiter. Lady Carbury had suffered something in the struggle. What efforts can mortals make as to which there will not be some disappointment? Paper and print cannot be had for nothing, and advertisements are very costly. An edition may be sold with startling rapidity, but it may have been but a scanty edition. When Lady Carbury received from Messrs. Leadham and Loiter their second very moderate cheque, with the expression of a fear on their part that there would not probably be a third,--unless some unforeseen demand should arise,--she repeated to herself those well-known lines from the satirist,--

It was a long time now since Lady Carbury's great historical work had been given to the world. Criminal Queens had been one of the more successful books of the season. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter had already published fourth and fifth editions, with advertisements aiming to show that Lady Carbury's book was the greatest historical work of the century. However, editions can be scanty, and advertisements are very costly. Lady Carbury received from Messrs. Leadham and Loiter a very moderate second cheque, with the warning that there would probably not be a third.


"Oh, Amos Cottle, for a moment think What meagre profits spread from pen and ink."


But not on that account did she for a moment hesitate as to further attempts. Indeed she had hardly completed the last chapter of her "Criminal Queens" before she was busy on another work; and although the last six months had been to her a period of incessant trouble, and sometimes of torture, though the conduct of her son had more than once forced her to declare to herself that her mind would fail her, still she had persevered. From day to day, with all her cares heavy upon her, she had sat at her work, with a firm resolve that so many lines should be always forthcoming, let the difficulty of making them be what it might. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter had thought that they might be justified in offering her certain terms for a novel,--terms not very high indeed, and those contingent on the approval of the manuscript by their reader. The smallness of the sum offered, and the want of certainty, and the pain of the work in her present circumstances, had all been felt by her to be very hard. But she had persevered, and the novel was now complete.

Nonetheless, she did not hesitate as to further attempts. Indeed she had hardly completed the last chapter of her Criminal Queens before she was busy on another work; and although the last six months had been a period of trouble, still she had persevered. Every day she had sat at her desk with a firm resolve. Messrs. Leadham and Loiter had offered her certain terms for a novel - terms not very high indeed, and dependent on the approval of the manuscript by their reader. But she had persevered, and the novel was now complete.


It cannot with truth be said of her that she had had any special tale to tell. She had taken to the writing of a novel because Mr. Loiter had told her that upon the whole novels did better than anything else. She would have written a volume of sermons on the same encouragement, and have gone about the work exactly after the same fashion. The length of her novel had been her first question. It must be in three volumes, and each volume must have three hundred pages. But what fewest number of words might be supposed sufficient to fill a page? The money offered was too trifling to allow of very liberal measure on her part. She had to live, and if possible to write another novel,--and, as she hoped, upon better terms,--when this should be finished. Then what should be the name of her novel; what the name of her hero; and above all what the name of her heroine? It must be a love story of course; but she thought that she would leave the complications of the plot to come by chance,--and they did come. "Don't let it end unhappily, Lady Carbury," Mr. Loiter had said, "because though people like it in a play, they hate it in a book. And whatever you do, Lady Carbury, don't be historical. Your historical novel, Lady Carbury, isn't worth a--" Mr. Loiter stopping himself suddenly, and remembering that he was addressing himself to a lady, satisfied his energy at last by the use of the word "straw." Lady Carbury had followed these instructions with accuracy.

It cannot with truth be said that she had any special tale to tell. She had written a novel because Mr. Loiter had told her that novels did better than anything else. She would have written a volume of sermons with the same encouragement, and would have gone about the work in exactly the same fashion. The novel had to be in three volumes, and each volume must have three hundred pages. But what was the fewest number of words needed to fill a page? The money offered was too trifling to allow of much effort on her part. It must be a love story of course; but she thought that she would leave the complications of the plot to come by chance.


The name for the story had been the great thing. It did not occur to the authoress that, as the plot was to be allowed to develop itself and was, at this moment when she was perplexed as to the title, altogether uncreated, she might as well wait to see what appellation might best suit her work when its purpose should have declared itself. A novel, she knew well, was most unlike a rose, which by any other name will smell as sweet. "The Faultless Father," "The Mysterious Mother," "The Lame Lover,"--such names as that she was aware would be useless now. "Mary Jane Walker," if she could be very simple, would do, or "Blanche De Veau," if she were able to maintain throughout a somewhat high-stilted style of feminine rapture. But as she considered that she could best deal with rapid action and strange coincidences, she thought that something more startling and descriptive would better suit her purpose. After an hour's thought a name did occur to her, and she wrote it down, and with considerable energy of purpose framed her work in accordance with her chosen title, "The Wheel of Fortune!" She had no particular fortune in her mind when she chose it, and no particular wheel;--but the very idea conveyed by the words gave her the plot which she wanted. A young lady was blessed with great wealth, and lost it all by an uncle, and got it all back by an honest lawyer, and gave it all up to a distressed lover, and found it all again in the third volume. And the lady's name was Cordinga, selected by Lady Carbury as never having been heard before either in the world of fact or in that of fiction.

The title for the story had been the great thing. It did not occur to her to wait to see what name might best suit her work once it was written. A novel, she knew, was most unlike a rose, which by any name will smell as sweet. "The Faultless Father" or "The Mysterious Mother" would be useless. "Mary Jane Walker" would do, or "Blanche De Veau," if she were more high-flown. But she thought that something more startling and descriptive would better suit her purpose.
After an hour's thought a name did occur to her, and she wrote down "The Wheel of Fortune." She had no particular fortune in mind, and no particular wheel; but the words gave her the plot she needed. A young lady was blessed with great wealth, and lost it all through an uncle, and got it all back by an honest lawyer, and gave it all up to a distressed lover, and found it again in the third volume. And the lady's name was Cordinga, selected by Lady Carbury as unique in fiction, and in life.


And now with all her troubles thick about her,--while her son was still hanging about the house in a condition that would break any mother's heart, while her daughter was so wretched and sore that she regarded all those around her as her enemies, Lady Carbury finished her work, and having just written the last words in which the final glow of enduring happiness was given to the young married heroine whose wheel had now come full round, sat with the sheets piled at her right hand. She had allowed herself a certain number of weeks for the task, and had completed it exactly in the time fixed. As she sat with her hand near the pile, she did give herself credit for her diligence. Whether the work might have been better done she never asked herself. I do not think that she prided herself much on the literary merit of the tale. But if she could bring the papers to praise it, if she could induce Mudie to circulate it, if she could manage that the air for a month should be so loaded with "The Wheel of Fortune," as to make it necessary for the reading world to have read or to have said that it had read the book,--then she would pride herself very much upon her work.

And now with all her troubles thick about her, Lady Carbury finished her work, and having just written the last words in which enduring happiness was given to the young heroine, sat with the sheets piled at her hand. She had allowed herself a certain number of weeks for the task, and had completed it in exactly that time. She gave herself credit for diligence, although she did not pride herself much on the literary merit of the tale. But if she could get the papers to praise it, if she could induce Mudie's Library to circulate it, if she could make it necessary for the reading world to have read the book - then she would pride herself very much upon her work.


As she was so sitting on a Sunday afternoon, in her own room, Mr. Alf was announced. According to her habit, she expressed warm delight at seeing him. Nothing could be kinder than such a visit just at such a time,--when there was so very much to occupy such a one as Mr. Alf! Mr. Alf, in his usual mildly satirical way, declared that he was not peculiarly occupied just at present. "The Emperor has left Europe at last," he said. "Poor Melmotte poisoned himself on Friday, and the inquest sat yesterday. I don't know that there is anything of interest to-day." Of course Lady Carbury was intent upon her book, rather even than on the exciting death of a man whom she had herself known. Oh, if she could only get Mr. Alf! She had tried it before, and had failed lamentably. She was well aware of that; and she had a deep-seated conviction that it would be almost impossible to get Mr. Alf. But then she had another deep-seated conviction, that that which is almost impossible may possibly be done. How great would be the glory, how infinite the service! And did it not seem as though Providence had blessed her with this special opportunity, sending Mr. Alf to her just at the one moment at which she might introduce the subject of her novel without seeming premeditation?

As she was sitting there, in her own room, Mr. Alf was announced. She expressed warm delight at seeing him. Nothing could be kinder than such a visit, she said, when there was so much to occupy him! Mr. Alf, in his usual mildly satirical way, declared that he was not particularly occupied just at present.
"The Emperor has left Europe at last," he said. "Poor Melmotte poisoned himself on Friday, and the inquest sat yesterday."
Of course Lady Carbury was intent upon her book, rather than even that exciting death. Oh, if she could only get Mr. Alf to praise it! She had tried that before, and had failed lamentably. But perhaps it could be done. It did seem that Providence had sent Mr. Alf to her just at this opportune moment.


"I am so tired," she said, affecting to throw herself back as though stretching her arms out for ease.

"I am so tired," she said, throwing herself back as though stretching her arms out for ease.


"I hope I am not adding to your fatigue," said Mr. Alf.


"Oh dear no. It is not the fatigue of the moment, but of the last six months. Just as you knocked at the door, I had finished the novel at which I have been working, oh, with such diligence!"

"Oh dear, no. It is not the fatigue of the moment, but of the last six months. Just as you knocked at the door, I had finished the novel at which I have been working."


"Oh,--a novel! When is it to appear, Lady Carbury?"

"Oh - a novel! When is it to appear, Lady Carbury?"


"You must ask Leadham and Loiter that question. I have done my part of the work. I suppose you never wrote a novel, Mr. Alf?"

"You must ask Leadham and Loiter that question. I suppose you never wrote a novel, Mr. Alf?"


"I? Oh dear no; I never write anything."


"I have sometimes wondered whether I have hated or loved it the most. One becomes so absorbed in one's plot and one's characters! One loves the loveable so intensely, and hates with such fixed aversion those who are intended to be hated. When the mind is attuned to it, one is tempted to think that it is all so good. One cries at one's own pathos, laughs at one's own humour, and is lost in admiration at one's own sagacity and knowledge."

"I have sometimes wondered whether I have hated or loved it the most. One becomes so absorbed in it! When the mind is attuned to it, one is tempted to think that it is all so good. One cries at one's own pathos, laughs at one's own humour, and is lost in admiration at one's own wisdom."


"But then there comes the reversed picture, the other side of the coin. On a sudden everything becomes flat, tedious, and unnatural. The heroine who was yesterday alive with the celestial spark is found to-day to be a lump of motionless clay. The dialogue that was so cheery on the first perusal is utterly uninteresting at a second reading. Yesterday I was sure that there was my monument," and she put her hand upon the manuscript; "to-day I feel it to be only too heavy for a gravestone!"

"But then there comes the other side of the coin. Suddenly everything seems flat, tedious, and unnatural. The heroine who was yesterday alive is found today to be a lump of motionless clay."


"One's judgment about one's-self always does vacillate," said Mr. Alf in a tone as phlegmatic as were the words.

"One's judgment about oneself always does vacillate," said Mr. Alf.


"And yet it is so important that one should be able to judge correctly of one's own work! I can at any rate trust myself to be honest, which is more perhaps than can be said of all the critics."

"And yet it is so important to judge one's own work correctly! I can at any rate trust myself to be honest, which is more perhaps than can be said of all the critics."


"Dishonesty is not the general fault of the critics, Lady Carbury,--at least not as far as I have observed the business. It is incapacity. In what little I have done in the matter, that is the sin which I have striven to conquer. When we want shoes we go to a professed shoemaker; but for criticism we have certainly not gone to professed critics. I think that when I gave up the 'Evening Pulpit,' I left upon it a staff of writers who are entitled to be regarded as knowing their business."

"Dishonesty is not the general fault of critics, Lady Carbury, but incapacity. That is the sin which I have striven to conquer. When I gave up the Evening Pulpit, I left upon it a staff of writers who know their business."


"You given up the 'Pulpit'? asked Lady Carbury with astonishment, readjusting her mind at once, so that she might perceive whether any and if so what advantage might be taken of Mr. Alf's new position. He was no longer editor, and therefore his heavy sense of responsibility would no longer exist;--but he must still have influence. Might he not be persuaded to do one act of real friendship? Might she not succeed if she would come down from her high seat, sink on the ground before him, tell him the plain truth, and beg for a favour as a poor struggling woman?

"You have given up the Pulpit?" asked Lady Carbury with astonishment, readjusting her mind at once. Mr. Alf was no longer editor - but he must still have influence. Should she sink on the ground before him, and beg for a favour?


"Yes, Lady Carbury, I have given it up. It was a matter of course that I should do so when I stood for Parliament. Now that the new member has so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall probably stand again."

"Yes, Lady Carbury, I gave it up when I stood for Parliament. Now that the new member has so suddenly vacated his seat, I shall probably stand again.


"I have given it up, and I suppose I have now satisfied the scruples of those gentlemen who seemed to think that I was committing a crime against the Constitution in attempting to get into Parliament while I was managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of course I know where it came from."

Some gentlemen seemed to think that I was committing a crime against the Constitution in standing for Parliament while managing a newspaper. I never heard such nonsense. Of course I know where it came from."


"Where should it come from but the 'Breakfast Table'? Broune and I have been very good friends, but I do think that of all the men I know he is the most jealous."

"Where else but the Breakfast Table? Broune and I have been very good friends, but I do think that he is the most jealous of men.


"That is so little," said Lady Carbury. She was really very fond of Mr. Broune, but at the present moment she was obliged to humour Mr. Alf.


"It seems to me that no man can be better qualified to sit in Parliament than an editor of a newspaper,--that is if he is capable as an editor."

No man can be better qualified to sit in Parliament than a newspaper editor - that is, if he is a capable editor."


"No one, I think, has ever doubted that of you."


"The only question is whether he be strong enough for the double work. I have doubted about myself, and have therefore given up the paper. I almost regret it."

"The only question is whether he is strong enough for the double work. I doubted about myself, and have therefore given up the paper."


"I dare say you do," said Lady Carbury, feeling intensely anxious to talk about her own affairs instead of his. "I suppose you still retain an interest in the paper?"

"I suppose you still retain an interest in it?" asked Lady Carbury.


"Some pecuniary interest;--nothing more."

"Some financial interest; nothing more."


"Oh, Mr. Alf,--you could do me such a favour!"

"Oh, Mr. Alf - you could do me such a favour!"


"Can I? If I can, you may be sure I will." False-hearted, false-tongued man! Of course he knew at the moment what was the favour Lady Carbury intended to ask, and of course he had made up his mind that he would not do as he was asked.

"If I can, you may be sure I will." False-tongued man! Of course he knew at once what the favour was, and had made up his mind that he would not do it.


"Will you?" And Lady Carbury clasped her hands together as she poured forth the words of her prayer. "I never asked you to do anything for me as long as you were editing the paper. Did I? I did not think it right, and I would not do it. I took my chance like others, and I am sure you must own that I bore what was said of me with a good grace. I never complained. Did I?"

"Will you?" Lady Carbury clasped her hands together as if praying. "I never asked you to do anything for me as long as you were editing the paper. I took my chance like others, and I bore what was said of me with a good grace. I never complained, did I?"


"But now that you have left it yourself,--if you would have the 'Wheel of Fortune' done for me,--really well done!"

"But now that you have left - if you would have The Wheel of Fortune done for me, really well done!"


"That is the name of my novel," said Lady Carbury, putting her hand softly upon the manuscript. "Just at this moment it would be the making of a fortune for me! And, oh, Mr. Alf, if you could but know how I want such assistance!"

"That is the name of my novel," said Lady Carbury, putting her hand softly upon the manuscript. "Oh, Mr. Alf!


"I have nothing further to do with the editorial management, Lady Carbury."


"Of course you could get it done. A word from you would make it certain. A novel is different from an historical work, you know. I have taken so much pains with it."


"Then no doubt it will be praised on its own merits."


"Don't say that, Mr. Alf. The 'Evening Pulpit' is like,--oh, it is like,--like,--like the throne of heaven! Who can be justified before it? Don't talk about its own merits, but say that you will have it done. It couldn't do any man any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once,--that is if it were done really con amore." Mr. Alf looked at her almost piteously, and shook his head. "The paper stands so high, it can't hurt it to do that kind of thing once. A woman is asking you, Mr. Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The thing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives."

Say that you will have it done. It couldn't do any harm, and it would sell five hundred copies at once."
Mr. Alf shook his head.
"A woman is asking you, Mr. Alf. It is for my children that I am struggling. The thing is done every day of the week, with much less noble motives."


"I do not think that it has ever been done by the 'Evening Pulpit.'"


"I think I saw a novel spoken highly of."


Mr. Alf laughed. "Why not? You do not suppose that it is the object of the 'Pulpit' to cry down novels?"


"I thought it was; but I thought you might make an exception here. I would be so thankful;--so grateful."

"I thought you might make an exception. I would be so grateful."


"My dear Lady Carbury, pray believe me when I say that I have nothing to do with it. I need not preach to you sermons about literary virtue."


"Oh, no," she said, not quite understanding what he meant.


"The sceptre has passed from my hands, and I need not vindicate the justice of my successor."


"But I must assure you that on no account should I think of meddling with the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not do it for my sister." Lady Carbury looked greatly pained. "Send the book out, and let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have it praised because it deserves praise, than to know that it has been eulogised as a mark of friendship."

On no account should I think of meddling with the literary arrangement of the paper. I would not even do it for my sister. Send the book out, and let it take its chance. How much prouder you will be to have it praised because it deserves praise."


"No, I shan't," said Lady Carbury. "I don't believe that anything like real selling praise is ever given to anybody, except to friends. I don't know how they manage it, but they do." Mr. Alf shook his head. "Oh yes; that is all very well from you. Of course you have been a dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of the 'New Cleopatra' is a very handsome woman." Lady Carbury must have been worried much beyond her wont, when she allowed herself so far to lose her temper as to bring against Mr. Alf the double charge of being too fond of the authoress in question, and of having sacrificed the justice of his columns to that improper affection.

"No, I shan't," said Lady Carbury. "I don't believe that praise is ever given to anybody, except friends." Mr. Alf shook his head. "Oh yes; that is all very well. Of course you have been a dragon of virtue; but they tell me that the authoress of The New Cleopatra is a very handsome woman." Lady Carbury must have been worried indeed, when she allowed herself to imply that Mr. Alf was too fond of the authoress in question to criticise her in his columns.


[Illustration: "Of course you have been a dragon of virtue."]


"At this moment I do not remember the name of the lady to whom you allude," said Mr. Alf, getting up to take his leave; "and I am quite sure that the gentleman who reviewed the book,--if there be any such lady and any such book,--had never seen her!" And so Mr. Alf departed.

"I do not remember the name of the lady to whom you allude," said Mr. Alf, getting up; "and I am quite sure that the gentleman who reviewed the book - if there be any such lady and any such book - had never seen her!" And he departed.


Lady Carbury was very angry with herself, and very angry also with Mr. Alf. She had not only meant to be piteous, but had made the attempt and then had allowed herself to be carried away into anger. She had degraded herself to humility, and had then wasted any possible good result by a foolish fit of chagrin. The world in which she had to live was almost too hard for her. When left alone she sat weeping over her sorrows; but when from time to time she thought of Mr. Alf and his conduct, she could hardly repress her scorn. What lies he had told her! Of course he could have done it had he chosen. But the assumed honesty of the man was infinitely worse to her than his lies. No doubt the "Pulpit" had two objects in its criticisms. Other papers probably had but one. The object common to all papers, that of helping friends and destroying enemies, of course prevailed with the "Pulpit." There was the second purpose of enticing readers by crushing authors,--as crowds used to be enticed to see men hanged when executions were done in public. But neither the one object nor the other was compatible with that Aristidean justice which Mr. Alf arrogated to himself and to his paper. She hoped with all her heart that Mr. Alf would spend a great deal of money at Westminster, and then lose his seat.

Lady Carbury was very angry with herself, and with Mr. Alf. She had allowed herself to be carried away, and had wasted any possible good result. The world was hard. She sat weeping over her sorrows; but when she thought of Mr. Alf she could hardly repress her scorn. What lies he had told her! Of course he could have done it had he chosen. She hoped with all her heart that Mr. Alf would spend a great deal of money at Westminster, and then lose his seat.


On the following morning she herself took the manuscript to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter, and was hurt again by the small amount of respect which seemed to be paid to the collected sheets. There was the work of six months; her very blood and brains,--the concentrated essence of her mind,--as she would say herself when talking with energy of her own performances; and Mr. Leadham pitched it across to a clerk, apparently perhaps sixteen years of age, and the lad chucked the parcel unceremoniously under a counter. An author feels that his work should be taken from him with fast-clutching but reverential hands, and held thoughtfully, out of harm's way, till it be deposited within the very sanctum of an absolutely fireproof safe. Oh, heavens, if it should be lost!--or burned!--or stolen! Those scraps of paper, so easily destroyed, apparently so little respected, may hereafter be acknowledged to have had a value greater, so far greater, than their weight in gold! If "Robinson Crusoe" had been lost! If "Tom Jones" had been consumed by flames! And who knows but that this may be another "Robinson Crusoe,"--a better than "Tom Jones"? "Will it be safe there?" asked Lady Carbury.

Next morning she took the manuscript to Messrs. Leadham and Loiter, and was hurt again by the small amount of respect they paid to her sheets. There was the work of six months; her very blood and brains; and Mr. Leadham pitched it across to a clerk of about sixteen years of age, who chucked the parcel unceremoniously under a counter. An author feels that his work should be taken from him with reverential hands, and placed in an absolutely fireproof safe. Oh, heavens, if it should be lost! or burned! or stolen!
"Will it be safe there?" asked Lady Carbury.


"Quite safe,--quite safe," said Mr. Leadham, who was rather busy, and who perhaps saw Lady Carbury more frequently than the nature and amount of her authorship seemed to him to require.

"Quite safe," said Mr. Leadham, who was rather busy.


"It seemed to be,--put down there,--under the counter!"


"That's quite right, Lady Carbury. They're left there till they're packed."


"There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He's down in Skye, and we keep them till there's enough to fill the sack."

"There are two or three dozen going to our reader this week. He's in Skye, and we keep them till there's enough to fill the sack.


"Not by post, Lady Carbury. There are not many of them would pay the expense. We send them by long sea to Glasgow, because just at this time of the year there is not much hurry. We can't publish before the winter." Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey by long sea to Glasgow!

We send them by sea to Glasgow, because at this time of the year there is not much hurry."
Oh, heavens! If that ship should be lost on its journey to Glasgow!


That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr. Broune came to her. There was something in the absolute friendship which now existed between Lady Carbury and the editor of the "Morning Breakfast Table," which almost made her scrupulous as to asking from him any further literary favour. She fully recognised,--no woman perhaps more fully,--the necessity of making use of all aid and furtherance which might come within reach. With such a son, with such need for struggling before her, would she not be wicked not to catch even at every straw? But this man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how to beg him to do that which she, with all her mistaken feelings, did in truth know that he ought not to do. He had asked her to marry him, for which,--though she had refused him,--she felt infinitely grateful. And though she had refused him, he had lent her money, and had supported her in her misery by his continued counsel. If he would offer to do this thing for her she would accept his kindness on her knees,--but even she could not bring herself to ask to have this added to his other favours. Her first word to him was about Mr. Alf. "So he has given up the paper?"

That evening, as was now almost his daily habit, Mr. Broune came to see Lady Carbury. Now that they were friends, she had scruples about asking him for any further literary favour. This man had now become so true to her, that she hardly knew how to beg him to do anything which she knew he ought not to do. He had asked her to marry him, for which she felt infinitely grateful. And he had lent her money, and had advised her in her misery.
Her first word to him was about Mr. Alf. "So he has given up the paper?"


"I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. Nobody likes to lose power. He'll share the work, and keep the authority. As for Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretch Melmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about the forgeries, how is it likely that he should stand against such a candidate as they'll get now?"

I don't suppose he'll really let it go out of his own hands. As for Westminster, I don't believe he has a chance. If that poor wretch Melmotte could beat him when everybody was already talking about the forgeries, how could he win now?"


"He never talks to me much of himself. We were speaking of my new book,--my novel. He assured me most positively that he had nothing further to do with the paper."

We were speaking of my new book, my novel, and he assured me most positively that he had nothing to do with the paper."


"He did not care to make you a promise, I dare say."


"That was just it. Of course I did not believe him."


"Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. If we can't be good-natured, at any rate we will say nothing ill-natured. Let me see,--what is the name?"

Neither will I make a promise, but we'll see what we can do. At any rate we will say nothing ill-natured. What is the title?"


"'The Wheel of Fortune.'" Lady Carbury as she told the title of her new book to her old friend seemed to be almost ashamed of it.


"Let them send it early,--a day or two before it's out, if they can. I can't answer, of course, for the opinion of the gentleman it will go to, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Good-bye. God bless you." And as he took her hand, he looked at her almost as though the old susceptibility were returning to him.

"Let them send it a day or two before it's out. I can't answer for the opinion of the reviewer, but nothing shall go in that you would dislike. Good-bye. God bless you." As he took her hand, he looked at her almost as though the old susceptibility were returning to him.


As she sat alone after he had gone, thinking over it all,--thinking of her own circumstances and of his kindness,--it did not occur to her to call him an old goose again. She felt now that she had mistaken her man when she had so regarded him. That first and only kiss which he had given her, which she had treated with so much derision, for which she had rebuked him so mildly and yet so haughtily, had now a somewhat sacred spot in her memory. Through it all the man must have really loved her! Was it not marvellous that such a thing should be? And how had it come to pass that she in all her tenderness had rejected him when he had given her the chance of becoming his wife?

But after he had gone, it did not occur to her to call him an old goose again. She felt that she had mistaken him back then. That first and only kiss, which she had treated with such derision, had now a somewhat sacred spot in her memory. The man must have really loved her! Was it not marvellous that such a thing should be? And how had it come to pass that she had rejected him when he had given her the chance of becoming his wife?


After leaving Melmotte's house on Sunday morning Paul Montague went to Roger Carbury's hotel and found his friend just returning from church. He was bound to go to Islington on that day, but had made up his mind that he would defer his visit till the evening. He would dine early and be with Mrs. Hurtle about seven o'clock. But it was necessary that Roger should hear the news about Ruby Ruggles. "It's not so bad as you thought," said he, "as she is living with her aunt."

After leaving Melmotte on Sunday morning Paul Montague went to Roger Carbury's hotel and found his friend just returning from church. He had made up his mind not to visit Mrs. Hurtle till seven o'clock that evening. But it was necessary that Roger should hear the news about Ruby Ruggles.
"It's not so bad as you thought," said he, "as she is living with her aunt."

Chapter 42: "Can You be Ready in Ten Minutes?"


"She says her grandfather knows where she is, and that he doesn't want her back again."

"She says her grandfather knows where she is, and that he doesn't want her back."


"Then it doesn't matter whether the woman's her aunt or not. I'll go and see her and try to get her back to Bungay."


Roger hesitated for a moment, and then answered, "He'd give Felix such a thrashing as no man ever had before. My cousin deserves it as well as any man ever deserved a thrashing; but there are reasons why I should not like it. And he could not force her back with him. I don't suppose the girl is all bad,--if she could see the truth."

Roger hesitated for a moment, and then answered, "He'd give Felix a thrashing. My cousin deserves it; but I should not like it. And he could not force her back with him. I don't suppose the girl is all bad - if she could see the truth."


"At any rate I'll go and see her," said Roger. "Perhaps I shall see your widow at the same time." Paul sighed, but said nothing more about his widow at that moment. "I'll walk up to Welbeck Street now," said Roger, taking his hat. "Perhaps I shall see you to-morrow." Paul felt that he could not go to Welbeck Street with his friend.

"I'll go and see her," said Roger. "Perhaps I shall see your widow at the same time." Paul sighed, but said nothing. "I'll walk up to Welbeck Street now," said Roger, taking his hat.
Paul


He dined in solitude at the Beargarden, and then again made that journey to Islington in a cab. As he went he thought of the proposal that had been made to him by Melmotte. If he could do it with a clear conscience, if he could really make himself believe in the railway, such an expedition would not be displeasing to him. He had said already more than he had intended to say to Hetta Carbury; and though he was by no means disposed to flatter himself, yet he almost thought that what he had said had been well received. At the moment they had been disturbed, but she, as she heard the sound of her mother coming, had at any rate expressed no anger. He had almost been betrayed into breaking a promise. Were he to start now on this journey, the period of the promise would have passed by before his return. Of course he would take care that she should know that he had gone in the performance of a duty. And then he would escape from Mrs. Hurtle, and would be able to make those inquiries which had been suggested to him. It was possible that Mrs. Hurtle should offer to go with him,--an arrangement which would not at all suit him. That at any rate must be avoided. But then how could he do this without a belief in the railway generally? And how was it possible that he should have such belief? Mr. Ramsbottom did not believe in it, nor did Roger Carbury. He himself did not in the least believe in Fisker, and Fisker had originated the railway. Then, would it not be best that he should take the Chairman's offer as to his own money? If he could get his 6,000 back and have done with the railway, he would certainly think himself a lucky man. But he did not know how far he could with honesty lay aside his responsibility; and then he doubted whether he could put implicit trust in Melmotte's personal guarantee for the amount. This at any rate was clear to him,--that Melmotte was very anxious to secure his absence from the meetings of the Board.

 dined in solitude at the Beargarden, and then went to Islington in a cab. As he went he thought of Melmotte's proposal. If he could do it with a clear conscience, if he could really make himself believe in the railway, such an expedition would be welcome to him. He had already said more than he had intended to say to Hetta Carbury; and she had expressed no anger. He had almost been betrayed into breaking a promise. Were he to start now on this journey, the period of the promise would have ended before his return. And he would escape from Mrs. Hurtle, and would be able to make inquiries about her. However, Mrs. Hurtle might offer to go with him - which would not suit him at all.
But how could he go without a belief in the railway? And how could he have such belief? Mr. Ramsbottom did not believe in it; nor did Roger Carbury. Would it not be best to take the Chairman's offer as to his own money? If he could get his 6,000 back and have done with the railway, he would think himself a lucky man. But he did not know how far he could with honesty lay aside his responsibility; and he doubted whether he could trust Melmotte's guarantee for the amount. At any rate, it was clear to him that Melmotte was very anxious to secure his absence from the meetings of the Board.


Now he was again at Mrs. Pipkin's door, and again it was opened by Ruby Ruggles. His heart was in his mouth as he thought of the things he had to say. "The ladies have come back from Southend, Miss Ruggles?"

Now he was again at Mrs. Pipkin's door, and again it was opened by Ruby Ruggles. "The ladies have come back from Southend, Miss Ruggles?"


"Oh yes, sir, and Mrs. Hurtle is expecting you all the day." Then she put in a whisper on her own account. "You didn't tell him as you'd seen me, Mr. Montague?"

"Oh yes, sir, and Mrs. Hurtle is expecting you." Then she whispered, "You didn't tell him as you'd seen me, Mr. Montague?"


"Then you might as well have left it alone, and not have been ill-natured,--that's all," said Ruby as she opened the door of Mrs. Hurtle's room.

"Then you might have left it alone, that's all," said Ruby as she opened the door of Mrs. Hurtle's room.


Mrs. Hurtle got up to receive him with her sweetest smile,--and her smile could be very sweet. She was a witch of a woman, and, as like most witches she could be terrible, so like most witches she could charm. "Only fancy," she said, "that you should have come the only day I have been two hundred yards from the house, except that evening when you took me to the play. I was so sorry."

Mrs. Hurtle received him with her sweetest smile - and her smile could be very sweet. Like most witches she could be terrible, and like most witches she could charm.
"Only fancy," she said, "that you should have come the only day I have been away from the house. I was so sorry.


"Why should you be sorry? It is easy to come again."


"Because I don't like to miss you, even for a day. But I wasn't well, and I fancied that the house was stuffy, and Mrs. Pipkin took a bright idea and proposed to carry me off to Southend. She was dying to go herself. She declared that Southend was Paradise."

But I wasn't well, and I fancied that the house was stuffy, and Mrs. Pipkin proposed to carry me off to Southend. She declared that Southend was Paradise."


"Oh, what a place it is! Do your people really go to Southend and fancy that that is the sea?"


"I believe they do. I never went to Southend myself,--so that you know more about it than I do."


"How very English it is,--a little yellow river,--and you call it the sea! Ah;--you never were at Newport!"

How very English - a little yellow river, and you call it the sea!"


"Yes; you've been at San Francisco, and heard the seals howling. Well; that's better than Southend."


"I suppose we do have the sea here in England. It's generally supposed we're an island."


"Of course;--but things are so small. If you choose to go to the west of Ireland, I suppose you'd find the Atlantic. But nobody ever does go there for fear of being murdered." Paul thought of the gentleman in Oregon, but said nothing;--thought, perhaps, of his own condition, and remembered that a man might be murdered without going either to Oregon or the west of Ireland. "But we went to Southend, I, and Mrs. Pipkin and the baby, and upon my word I enjoyed it. She was so afraid that the baby would annoy me, and I thought the baby was so much the best of it. And then we ate shrimps, and she was so humble. You must acknowledge that with us nobody would be so humble. Of course I paid. She has got all her children, and nothing but what she can make out of these lodgings. People are just as poor with us;--and other people who happen to be a little better off, pay for them. But nobody is humble to another, as you are here. Of course we like to have money as well as you do, but it doesn't make so much difference."

"Of course; but things are so small. But upon my word I enjoyed Southend. We ate shrimps, and Mrs. Pipkin was so humble. Of course I paid. She has got all those children, and nothing but what she can earn from these lodgings.


"He who wants to receive, all the world over, will make himself as agreeable as he can to him who can give."


"But Mrs. Pipkin was so humble. However we got back all right yesterday evening, and then I found that you had been here,--at last."

We got back yesterday evening, and then I found that you had been here, at last."


"You knew that I had to go to Liverpool."


"I'm not going to scold. Did you get your business done at Liverpool?"


"Yes;--one generally gets something done, but never anything very satisfactorily. Of course it's about this railway."

"Yes; of course it's about this railway."


"I should have thought that that was satisfactory. Everybody talks of it as being the greatest thing ever invented. I wish I was a man that I might be concerned with a really great thing like that. I hate little peddling things. I should like to manage the greatest bank in the world, or to be Captain of the biggest fleet, or to make the largest railway. It would be better even than being President of a Republic, because one would have more of one's own way. What is it that you do in it, Paul?"

"Everybody talks of it as being the greatest thing ever invented. I wish I was a man so that I might be involved with a great thing like that. What is it that you do in it, Paul?"


"They want me now to go out to Mexico about it," said he slowly.

"They want me to go out to Mexico about it," said he slowly.


"Shall you go?" said she, throwing herself forward and asking the question with manifest anxiety.


"Why not? Do go. Oh, Paul, I would go with you. Why should you not go? It is just the thing for such a one as you to do. The railway will make Mexico a new country, and then you would be the man who had done it. Why should you throw away such a chance as that? It will never come again. Emperors and kings have tried their hands at Mexico and have been able to do nothing. Emperors and kings never can do anything. Think what it would be to be the regenerator of Mexico!"

"Why not? Do go. Oh, Paul, I would go with you. It is just the thing for you to do. The railway will make Mexico a new country, and you would be the man who had done it. Why should you throw away such a chance as that? Think what it would be to be the regenerator of Mexico!"


"Think what it would be to find one's self there without the means of doing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely that one might be out of the way."

"Think what it would be to find one's self there without the means of doing anything, and to feel that one had been sent there merely to be out of the way."


"I would make the means of doing something."


"There is money going. There must be money where there is all this buying and selling of shares. Where does your uncle get the money with which he is living like a prince at San Francisco? Where does Fisker get the money with which he is speculating in New York? Where does Melmotte get the money which makes him the richest man in the world? Why should not you get it as well as the others?"

"There must be money where there is all this buying and selling of shares. Where does Fisker get his money? Where does Melmotte get his money? Why should not you get it as well as the others?"


"If I were anxious to rob on my own account perhaps I might do it."


"Why should it be robbery? I do not want you to live in a palace and spend millions of dollars on yourself. But I want you to have ambition. Go to Mexico, and chance it. Take San Francisco in your way, and get across the country. I will go every yard with you. Make people there believe that you are in earnest, and there will be no difficulty about the money."

"Why should it be robbery? I do not want you to live in a palace. But I want you to have ambition. Go to Mexico, and chance it. I will go every yard with you."


He felt that he was taking no steps to approach the subject which he should have to discuss before he left her,--or rather the statement which he had resolved that he would make. Indeed every word which he allowed her to say respecting this Mexican project carried him farther away from it. He was giving reasons why the journey should not be made; but was tacitly admitting that if it were to be made she might be one of the travellers. The very offer on her part implied an understanding that his former abnegation of his engagement had been withdrawn, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her, in a side-way fashion, that he would not submit to her companionship either for the purpose of such a journey or for any other purpose. The thing must be said in a solemn manner, and must be introduced on its own basis. But such preliminary conversation as this made the introduction of it infinitely more difficult.

He felt that he was taking no steps towards the statement which he had resolved to make. Indeed every word about this Mexican project carried him farther away from it. He was tacitly admitting that if he went, she might travel with him. The very offer on her part implied that they were still engaged, and yet he shrunk from the cruelty of telling her that he would not have her as a companion for such a journey or for any other purpose. The thing must be said; but this conversation made it infinitely more difficult.


"You're going to spend the evening with me like a good man? Then I'll ask them to let us have tea." She rang the bell and Ruby came in, and the tea was ordered. "That young lady tells me that you are an old friend of hers."

"You're going to spend the evening with me like a good man? I'll ask them to let us have tea." She rang the bell and Ruby brought tea. "That young lady tells me that you are an old friend of hers."


"I've known about her down in the country, and was astonished to find her here yesterday."

"I've met her down in the country, and was astonished to find her here yesterday."


"There's some lover, isn't there;--some would-be husband whom she does not like?"

"There's some lover, isn't there; some would-be husband whom she does not like?"


"And some won't-be husband, I fear, whom she does like."


"That's quite of course, if the other is true. Miss Ruby isn't the girl to have come to her time of life without a preference. The natural liking of a young woman for a man in a station above her, because he is softer and cleaner and has better parts of speech,--just as we keep a pretty dog if we keep a dog at all,--is one of the evils of the inequality of mankind. The girl is content with the love without having the love justified, because the object is more desirable. She can only have her love justified with an object less desirable. If all men wore coats of the same fabric, and had to share the soil of the work of the world equally between them, that evil would come to an end. A woman here and there might go wrong from fantasy and diseased passions, but the ever-existing temptation to go wrong would be at an end."

"Of course. The natural liking of a young woman for a man in a station above her, because he is softer and cleaner and speaks better, is one of the evils of the inequality of mankind. If all men wore coats of the same fabric, and all worked equally, that evil would come to an end."


"If men were equal to-morrow and all wore the same coats, they would wear different coats the next day."

"If men were equal tomorrow and all wore the same coats, they would wear different coats the next day."


"Slightly different. But there would be no more purple and fine linen, and no more blue woad. It isn't to be done in a day of course, nor yet in a century,--nor in a decade of centuries; but every human being who looks into it honestly will see that his efforts should be made in that direction. I remember; you never take sugar; give me that."

"But there would be no more purple and fine linen," said she. "It isn't to be done in a day, of course, nor yet in a century. I remember, you never take sugar; give me that."


Neither had he come here to discuss the deeply interesting questions of women's difficulties and immediate or progressive equality. But having got on to these rocks,--having, as the reader may perceive, been taken on to them wilfully by the skill of the woman,--he did not know how to get his bark out again into clear waters. But having his own subject before him, with all its dangers, the wild-cat's claws, and the possible fate of the gentleman in Oregon, he could not talk freely on the subjects which she introduced, as had been his wont in former years. "Thanks," he said, changing his cup. "How well you remember!"


"Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences and dislikings? Do you recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that I should never wear blue?"

"Do you think I shall ever forget your preferences? Do you recollect telling me about that blue scarf of mine, that I should never wear blue?"


She stretched herself out towards him, waiting for an answer, so that he was obliged to speak. "Of course I do. Black is your colour;--black and grey; or white,--and perhaps yellow when you choose to be gorgeous; crimson possibly. But not blue or green."

She waited for an answer, so that he was obliged to speak.
"Of course I do. Black is your colour; black and grey; or white, and perhaps yellow when you choose to be gorgeous; crimson possibly. But not blue or green."


"I never thought much of it before, but I have taken your word for gospel. It is very good to have an eye for such things,--as you have, Paul. But I fancy that taste comes with, or at any rate forbodes, an effete civilisation."

"I never thought much of it before, but I have taken your word for gospel. It is very good to have an eye for such things, as you have, Paul.


"I am sorry that mine should be effete," he said smiling.


"You know what I mean, Paul. I speak of nations, not individuals. Civilisation was becoming effete, or at any rate men were, in the time of the great painters; but Savanarola and Galileo were individuals. You should throw your lot in with a new people. This railway to Mexico gives you the chance."


"They who will rule the Mexicans are. All American women I dare say have bad taste in gowns,--and so the vain ones and rich ones send to Paris for their finery; but I think our taste in men is generally good. We like our philosophers; we like our poets; we like our genuine workmen;--but we love our heroes. I would have you a hero, Paul." He got up from his chair and walked about the room in an agony of despair. To be told that he was expected to be a hero at the very moment in his life in which he felt more devoid of heroism, more thoroughly given up to cowardice than he had ever been before, was not to be endured! And yet, with what utmost stretch of courage,--even though he were willing to devote himself certainly and instantly to the worst fate that he had pictured to himself,--could he immediately rush away from these abstract speculations, encumbered as they were with personal flattery, into his own most unpleasant, most tragic matter! It was the unfitness that deterred him and not the possible tragedy. Nevertheless, through it all, he was sure,--nearly sure,--that she was playing her game, and playing it in direct antagonism to the game which she knew that he wanted to play. Would it not be better that he should go away and write another letter? In a letter he could at any rate say what he had to say;--and having said it he would then strengthen himself to adhere to it. "What makes you so uneasy?" she asked; still speaking in her most winning way, caressing him with the tones of her voice. "Do you not like me to say that I would have you be a hero?"

I would have you a hero, Paul."
He got up from his chair and walked about the room in an agony of despair. To be told that he was expected to be a hero at the very moment when he felt more of a coward than ever before, was not to be endured! And yet how could he immediately rush away from these flattering speculations to his own unpleasant, tragic matter!
Nevertheless, through it all, he was sure - nearly sure - that she was playing her game, in direct opposition to the game which she knew that he wanted to play. Would it not be better to go away and write another letter? In a letter he could say what he had to say.
"What makes you so uneasy?" she asked in her most caressing way. "Do you not like me to say that I would have you be a hero?"


"Winifrid," he said, "I came here with a purpose, and I had better carry it out."


"What purpose?" She still leaned forward, but now supported her face on her two hands with her elbows resting on her knees, looking at him intently. But one would have said that there was only love in her eyes;--love which might be disappointed, but still love. The wild cat, if there, was all within, still hidden from sight. Paul stood with his hands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying to find fitting words for the occasion. "Stop, my dear," she said. "Must the purpose be told to-night?"

"What purpose?" She leaned forward, looking at him intently. But there seemed to be only love in her eyes; the wild cat, if there, was hidden from sight. Paul stood with his hands on the back of a chair, propping himself up and trying to find fitting words. "Stop, my dear," she said. "Must the purpose be told tonight?"


"Paul, I am not well;--I am weak now. I am a coward. You do not know the delight to me of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friend after the desolation of the last weeks. Mrs. Pipkin is not very charming. Even her baby cannot supply all the social wants of my life. I had intended that everything should be sweet to-night. Oh, Paul, if it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, or with pleasure of those that are past,--then carry out your purpose. But if it be cruel, or harsh, or painful; if you had come to speak daggers;--then drop your purpose for to-night. Try and think what my solitude must have been to me, and let me have one hour of comfort."

"Paul, I am not well; and I am a coward. You do not know the delight of having a few words of pleasant talk to an old friend after the desolation of the last weeks. Oh, Paul, if it was your purpose to tell me of your love, to assure me that you are still my dear, dear friend, to speak with hope of future days, then do so. But if you had come to speak cruel daggers, then drop your purpose for tonight, and let me have one hour of comfort."


Of course he was conquered for that night, and could only have that solace which a most injurious reprieve could give him. "I will not harass you, if you are ill," he said.

Of course he was conquered for that night. "I will not harass you, if you are ill," he said.


"I am ill. It was because I was afraid that I should be really ill that I went to Southend. The weather is hot, though of course the sun here is not as we have it. But the air is heavy,--what Mrs. Pipkin calls muggy. I was thinking if I were to go somewhere for a week, it would do me good. Where had I better go?" Paul suggested Brighton. "That is full of people; is it not?--a fashionable place?"

"I am ill. That is why I went to Southend. The air is heavy; what Mrs. Pipkin calls muggy. I was thinking if I were to go away somewhere for a week, it would do me good. Where had I better go?" Paul suggested Brighton. "That is full of people; is it not?"


"But it is a big place. I want some little place that would be pretty. You could take me down; could you not? Not very far, you know;--not that any place can be very far from here." Paul, in his John Bull displeasure, suggested Penzance, telling her, untruly, that it would take twenty-four hours. "Not Penzance then, which I know is your very Ultima Thule;--not Penzance, nor yet Orkney. Is there no other place,--except Southend?"

"But it is a big place. I want some little, pretty place. You could take me - not very far, you know. Is there no other place, except Southend?"


"There is Cromer in Norfolk,--perhaps ten hours."

"There is Cromer in Norfolk, perhaps ten hours away."


"If you start from Cromer right away, a hundred miles would perhaps take you across to Holland. A ditch of that kind wouldn't do perhaps."

It is a hundred miles to Holland. A ditch of that kind wouldn't do perhaps."


"Ah,--now I see you are laughing at me. Is Cromer pretty?"

"Ah, now you are laughing at me. Is Cromer pretty?"


"Well, yes;--I think it is. I was there once, but I don't remember much. There's Ramsgate."

"Well, yes; I think it is. I was there once, but I don't remember much.


"Mrs. Pipkin told me of Ramsgate. I don't think I should like Ramsgate."


"There's the Isle of Wight. The Isle of Wight is very pretty."


"That's the Queen's place. There would not be room for her and me too."


"Or Lowestoft. Lowestoft is not so far as Cromer, and there is a railway all the distance."

Then there's Lowestoft. It is not so far as Cromer, and there is a railway all the distance


"Sea enough for anything. If you can't see across it, and if there are waves, and wind enough to knock you down, and shipwrecks every other day, I don't see why a hundred miles isn't as good as a thousand."


"A hundred miles is just as good as a thousand. But, Paul, at Southend it isn't a hundred miles across to the other side of the river. You must admit that. But you will be a better guide than Mrs. Pipkin. You would not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a wish for the ocean;--would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an hotel?"

"You will be a better guide than Mrs. Pipkin. You would not have taken me to Southend when I expressed a wish for the ocean, would you? Let it be Lowestoft. Is there an hotel?"


"Very small? uncomfortably small? But almost any place would do for me."


"They make up, I believe, about a hundred beds; but in the States it would be very small."

"They have about a hundred beds; but in the States it would be very small."


"Paul," said she, delighted to have brought him back to this humour, "if I were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve you right. This is all because I did not lose myself in awe at the sight of the Southend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft." Then she rose up and came to him, and took his arm. "You will take me down, will you not? It is desolate for a woman to go into such a place all alone. I will not ask you to stay. And I can return by myself." She had put both hands on one arm, and turned herself round, and looked into his face. "You will do that for old acquaintance sake?" For a moment or two he made no answer, and his face was troubled, and his brow was black. He was endeavouring to think;--but he was only aware of his danger, and could see no way through it. "I don't think you will let me ask in vain for such a favour as that," she said.

"Paul," said she, delighted to have brought him back to this humour, "if I were to throw the tea things at you, it would serve you right. This is because I did not lose myself in awe at the sight of the Southend ocean. It shall be Lowestoft." Then she rose up and took his arm. "You will take me, will you not? It is desolate for a woman to travel to such a place all alone. I will not ask you to stay. And I can return by myself. You will do that for old acquaintance sake?"
For a moment he made no answer, and his face was troubled. He was trying to think; he was aware of his danger, and could see no way through it.


"No;" he replied. "I will take you down. When will you go?" He had cockered himself up with some vain idea that the railway carriage would be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhaps the sands at Lowestoft.

"I will take you down. When will you go?" He had some idea that the railway carriage would be a good place for the declaration of his purpose, or perhaps the sands at Lowestoft.


"When will I go? when will you take me? You have Boards to attend, and shares to look to, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman with nothing on hand but Mrs. Pipkin's baby. Can you be ready in ten minutes?--because I could." Paul shook his head and laughed. "I've named a time and that doesn't suit. Now, sir, you name another, and I'll promise it shall suit." Paul suggested Saturday, the 29th. He must attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte before the Board day. Saturday of course would do for Mrs. Hurtle. Should she meet him at the railway station? Of course he undertook to come and fetch her.

"When will you take me? You have Boards to attend, and Mexico to regenerate. I am a poor woman with nothing on hand. Can you be ready in ten minutes? - because I could."
Paul shook his head and laughed, before suggesting Saturday, the 29th. He must attend the next Board, and had promised to see Melmotte before the Board day. Should she meet him at the railway station? Of course he undertook to come and fetch her.


Then, as he took his leave, she stood close against him, and put her cheek up for him to kiss. There are moments in which a man finds it utterly impossible that he should be prudent,--as to which, when he thought of them afterwards, he could never forgive himself for prudence, let the danger have been what it may. Of course he took her in his arms, and kissed her lips as well as her cheeks.

Then, as he took his leave, she put her cheek up for him to kiss. There are moments when a man finds it utterly impossible to be prudent, let the danger be what it may. Of course he took her in his arms, and kissed her lips as well as her cheeks.


When the little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and Miss Longestaffe, as recorded in the last chapter, Mr. Melmotte was in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. Gradually their value subsided. Lady Monogram had paid very dear for hers,--especially as the reception of Mr. Brehgert must be considered. But high prices were then being paid. A lady offered to take Marie Melmotte into the country with her for a week; but this was before the elopement. Mr. Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it was known that he was to marry Marie Melmotte. And Miles Grendall got back an I. O. U. of considerable nominal value from Lord Grasslough, who was anxious to accommodate two country cousins who were in London. Gradually the prices fell;--not at first from any doubt in Melmotte, but through that customary reaction which may be expected on such occasions. But at eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets were worth nothing. The rumour had then spread itself through the whole town from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming home from clubs had told their wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even the hairdressers had it, and ladies' maids had been instructed by the footmen and grooms who had been holding horses and seated on the coach-boxes. It had got into the air, and had floated round dining-rooms and over toilet-tables.

When that little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and Miss Longestaffe, Mr. Melmotte was in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. High prices were being paid. Mr. Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it was known that he was to marry Marie Melmotte.
But gradually the prices fell; and by eight or nine o'clock on the evening of the party the tickets were worth nothing. The rumour had spread through the whole town from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming home from clubs had told their wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even the hairdressers had heard it, and ladies' maids and footmen and grooms. It had got into the air.

Chapter 61: Lady Monogram Prepares for the Party


I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his wife as he was dressing for dinner, had he calculated what might be the result to himself. But he came home open-mouthed, and made no calculation. "Have you heard what's up, Ju?" he said, rushing half-dressed into his wife's room.

I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his wife, if he had calculated what the result might be. But he made no calculation.
"Have you heard what's up, Ju?" he said when he came home, rushing half-dressed into his wife's room.


[Illustration: "Have you heard what's up, Ju?"]


"I was shopping, and that kind of thing. I don't want to take that girl into the Park. I've made a mistake in having her here, but I mean to be seen with her as little as I can."


"Be good-natured, Ju, whatever you are."


"Oh, bother! I know what I'm about. What is it you mean?"


"Found out!" exclaimed Lady Monogram, stopping her maid in some arrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of her not going to the reception. "What do you mean by found out?"

"Found out!" exclaimed Lady Monogram. "What do you mean?"


"I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something about that place he bought of old Longestaffe."

"I don't know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It's something about that place he bought off old Longestaffe."


"Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won't have her here a day longer if there is anything against them."


"Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against him except that the poor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money."

"Don't be an ass, Ju. There's nothing against them except that the poor old fellow hasn't got a shilling of his money."


"Then he's ruined,--and there's an end of them."

"Then he's ruined - and there's an end of them."


"Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged a receipt, others a letter. Some declare that he has manufactured a whole set of title-deeds. You remember Dolly?"

"Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged a receipt, or maybe a letter, or maybe a whole set of title-deeds. They say Dolly


"Of course I know Dolly Longestaffe," said Lady Monogram, who had thought at one time that an alliance with Dolly might be convenient.


"They say he has found it all out. There was always something about Dolly more than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody says that Melmotte will be in quod before long."

has found it all out. There was always more about Dolly than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody says that Melmotte will be arrested before long."


"Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would wait about in the room like servants till the Emperor and the Princes had gone away."

"Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would wait till the Emperor and the Princes had gone away."


"He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn't made up his mind whether he'd go or not when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite certain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet Council was to be called to know what to do."

"He hadn't made up his mind when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite certain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet Council was to be called.


"Why, you see it's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go to dine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to gaol before dinner-time. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows."

It's rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go to dine with a man who may be arrested before dinner-time. That's the worst part of it. Nobody knows."


Lady Monogram waved her attendant away. She piqued herself upon having a French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was therefore quite careless what she said in the woman's presence. But, of course, everything she did say was repeated down-stairs in some language that had become intelligible to the servants generally. Lady Monogram sat motionless for some time, while her husband, retreating to his own domain, finished his operations. "Damask," she said, when he reappeared, "one thing is certain;--we can't go."

Lady Monogram waved her maid away. She piqued herself upon having a French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was therefore quite careless in the woman's presence. But, of course, everything she said was repeated downstairs. Lady Monogram sat motionless for some time, while her husband finished dressing for dinner.
"Damask," she said, "we can't go."


"After you've made such a fuss about it!"


"It is a pity,--having that girl here in the house. You know, don't you, she's going to marry one of these people?"

"It is a pity, having that girl here in the house. You know she's going to marry one of these people?"


"I heard about her marriage yesterday. But Brehgert isn't one of Melmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. A vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him."

"But Brehgert isn't one of Melmotte's set. They tell me that Brehgert isn't a bad fellow. A vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him."


"He's a Jew,--and he's seventy years old, and makes up horribly."


"What does it matter to you if he's eighty? You are determined, then, you won't go?"


But Lady Monogram had by no means determined that she wouldn't go. She had paid her price, and with that economy which sticks to a woman always in the midst of her extravagances, she could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte's villainy, as regarded herself. That he was enriching himself by the daily plunder of the innocent she had taken for granted since she had first heard of him. She had but a confused idea of any difference between commerce and fraud. But it would grieve her greatly to become known as one of an awkward squad of people who had driven to the door, and perhaps been admitted to some wretched gathering of wretched people,--and not, after all, to have met the Emperor and the Prince. But then, should she hear on the next morning that the Emperor and the Princes, that the Princesses, and the Duchesses, with the Ambassadors, Cabinet Ministers, and proper sort of world generally, had all been there,--that the world, in short, had ignored Melmotte's villainy,--then would her grief be still greater. She sat down to dinner with her husband and Miss Longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter. Miss Longestaffe was still a guest of the Melmottes, although she had transferred herself to the Monograms for a day or two. And a horrible idea crossed Lady Monogram's mind. What should she do with her friend Georgiana if the whole Melmotte establishment were suddenly broken up? Of course, Madame Melmotte would refuse to take the girl back if her husband were sent to gaol. "I suppose you'll go," said Sir Damask as the ladies left the room.

But Lady Monogram had by no means decided. She had paid her price, and she could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte's villainy: she had taken it for granted since she had first heard of him, and had only a confused idea of any difference between commerce and fraud. It would grieve her greatly to become known as one who had driven to the door, and had not, after all, met the Emperor and the Prince. But then, should she hear the next morning that the Emperor and the Princes and Princesses, and the world generally, had all been there when she had not - then her grief would be still greater.
She sat down to dinner with her husband and Miss Longestaffe, and could not talk freely on the matter. Miss Longestaffe was still a guest of the Melmottes, although she was visiting the Monograms for a day or two.
"I suppose you'll go," said Sir Damask as the ladies left the room.


"Of course we shall,--in about an hour," said Lady Monogram as she left the room, looking round at him and rebuking him for his imprudence.

"Of course we shall - in about an hour," said Lady Monogram, looking at him in rebuke him for his imprudence.


"Because, you know--" and then he called her back. "If you want me I'll stay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the club."

"Because if you want me I'll stay, of course; but if you don't, I'll go down to the club."


"How can I say, yet? You needn't mind the club to-night."


"All right;--only it's a bore being here alone."


Then Miss Longestaffe asked what "was up." "Is there any doubt about our going to-night?"

Then Miss Longestaffe asked, "Is there any doubt about our going tonight?"


"I can't say. I'm so harassed that I don't know what I'm about. There seems to be a report that the Emperor won't be there."

"There seems to be a report that the Emperor won't be there."


"It's all very well to say impossible, my dear," said Lady Monogram; "but still that's what people are saying. You see Mr. Melmotte is a very great man, but perhaps--something else has turned up, so that he may be thrown over. Things of that kind do happen. You had better finish dressing. I shall. But I shan't make sure of going till I hear that the Emperor is there." Then she descended to her husband, whom she found forlornly consoling himself with a cigar. "Damask," she said, "you must find out."

"It's all very well to say impossible, my dear," said Lady Monogram; "but that's what people are saying. You see Mr. Melmotte is a very great man, but perhaps - something has turned up. Things of that kind do happen. You had better finish dressing. But I shan't make sure of going till I hear that the Emperor is there." Then she descended to her husband. "Damask," she said, "you must find out


"Whether the Prince and the Emperor are there."

whether the Prince and the Emperor are there."


"Send John to ask," suggested the husband.


"He would be sure to make a blunder about it. If you'd go yourself you'd learn the truth in a minute. Have a cab,--just go into the hall and you'll soon know how it all is;--I'd do it in a minute if I were you." Sir Damask was the most good-natured man in the world, but he did not like the job. "What can be the objection?" asked his wife.

"If you'd go yourself you'd learn the truth in a minute. Take a cab."
Sir Damask did not like the job.


"Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are come before you go yourself! I don't just see it, Ju."

"Go to a man's house and find out whether a man's guests are come! I just don't see it, Ju."


"Guests! What nonsense! The Emperor and all the Royal Family! As if it were like any other party. Such a thing, probably, never happened before, and never will happen again. If you don't go, Damask, I must; and I will." Sir Damask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that he would go. He made many remonstrances. It was a confounded bore. He hated emperors and he hated princes. He hated the whole box and dice of that sort of thing! He "wished to goodness" that he had dined at his club and sent word up home that the affair was to be off. But at last he submitted, and allowed his wife to leave the room with the intention of sending for a cab. The cab was sent for and announced, but Sir Damask would not stir till he had finished his big cigar.

"If you don't go, Damask, I must; and I will."
Sir Damask, after groaning and smoking for half a minute, said that he would go, though it was a confounded bore. He hated emperors and princes. But at last he submitted, and the cab was sent for.


It was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in Grosvenor Square he could at once see that the party was going on. The house was illuminated. There was a concourse of servants round the door, and half the square was already blocked up with carriages. It was not without delay that he got to the door, and when there he saw the royal liveries. There was no doubt about the party. The Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses were all there. As far as Sir Damask could then perceive, the dinner had been quite a success. But again there was a delay in getting away, and it was nearly eleven before he could reach home. "It's all right," said he to his wife. "They're there, safe enough."

It was past ten when he left his own house. On arriving in Grosvenor Square he could at once see that the party was going on. The house was illuminated, and half the square was already blocked up with carriages. When he got to the door, he saw the royal liveries. There was no doubt. The Emperor and the Princes and the Princesses were all there. But it was nearly eleven before he could reach home.
"It's all right," said he to his wife. "They're there, safe enough."


"You are sure that the Emperor is there."

"You are sure that the Emperor is there?"


"As sure as a man can be without having seen him."


Miss Longestaffe was present at this moment, and could not but resent what appeared to be a most unseemly slur cast upon her friends. "I don't understand it at all," she said. "Of course the Emperor is there. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. What is the meaning of it, Julia?"

Miss Longestaffe was present, and resented the slur cast upon her friends.
"I don't understand it at all," she said. "Of course the Emperor is there. Everybody has known for the last month that he was coming. What is the meaning of it, Julia?"


"My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own way. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if the carriage is there we had better start." The carriage was there, and they did start, and with a delay which seemed unprecedented, even to Lady Monogram, who was accustomed to these things, they reached the door. There was a great crush in the hall, and people were coming down-stairs. But at last they made their way into the room above, and found that the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had been there,--but had taken their departure.

"My dear, you must allow me to manage my own little affairs my own way. I dare say I am absurd. But I have my reason. Now, Damask, if the carriage is there we had better start." The carriage was there, and they did start. When they reached the house, there was a great crush in the hall. But at last they made their way into the room above, and found that the Emperor of China and all the Royalties had been there - and had departed.


Sir Damask put the ladies into the carriage and went at once to his club.


All this time Mr. Longestaffe was necessarily detained in London while the three ladies of his family were living forlornly at Caversham. He had taken his younger daughter home on the day after his visit to Lady Monogram, and in all his intercourse with her had spoken of her suggested marriage with Mr. Brehgert as a thing utterly out of the question. Georgiana had made one little fight for her independence at the Jermyn Street Hotel. "Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard," she said.

Mr. Longestaffe had taken his younger daughter home on the day after his visit to Lady Monogram, and had spoken of her suggested marriage with Mr. Brehgert as utterly out of the question.
Georgiana had made one little fight for her independence at the Jermyn Street Hotel. "Indeed, papa, I think it's very hard," she said.

Chapter 78: Miss Longstaffe Again at Caversham