"What's the good of talking about it?" said Nidderdale. "I hate all this row about winning and losing. Let's go on, or go to bed." The idea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on. Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke at all, played very little, and watched Miles Grendall without seeming to watch him. At last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man's sleeve, and remembered at the moment that the winner had owed his success to a continued run of aces. He was tempted to rush at once upon the player, and catch the card on his person. But he feared. Grendall was a big man; and where would he be if there should be no card there? And then, in the scramble, there would certainly be at any rate a doubt. And he knew that the men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Grasslough was Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe would infinitely rather be cheated than suspect any one of their own set of cheating them. He feared both the violence of the man he should accuse, and also the impassive good humour of the others. He let that opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted. Thrice he saw it, till it was wonderful to him that others also should not see it. As often as the deal came round, the man did it. Felix watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man had an ace at least once. It seemed to him that nothing could be easier. At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and went away, leaving the others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper. "There's something the matter with that fellow," said Grasslough.

"What's the good of talking about it?" said Nidderdale. "Let's go on, or go to bed." The idea of going to bed was absurd. So they went on.
Sir Felix, however, hardly spoke, and watched Miles Grendall. At last he felt certain that he saw a card go into the man's sleeve. He was tempted to rush at once upon him, and catch the card on his person. But Grendall was a big man; and what if there should be no card there? And the men around him would be most unwilling to believe such an accusation. Grasslough was Grendall's friend, and Nidderdale and Dolly Longestaffe would rather be cheated than suspect one of their own set of cheating them.
So Felix let that opportunity pass by, again watched, and again saw the card abstracted. Thrice he saw it, till it was amazing to him that others did not. He watched more closely, and was certain that in each round the man had an ace at least once. At last he pleaded a headache, got up, and went away, leaving the others playing. He had lost nearly a thousand pounds, but it had been all in paper.
"There's something the matter with that fellow," said Grasslough.


"There's always something the matter with him, I think," said Miles. "He is so awfully greedy about his money." Miles had become somewhat triumphant in his success.

"There's always something the matter with him," said Miles. "He is so awfully greedy about his money."


"The less said about that, Grendall, the better," said Nidderdale. "We have put up with a good deal, you know, and he has put up with as much as anybody." Miles was cowed at once, and went on dealing without manoeuvring a card on that hand.

"The less said about that, Grendall, the better," said Nidderdale. "We have all put up with a good deal, you know." Miles was cowed, and dealt without manoeuvring a card on that hand.


Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. The story she had heard seemed to be almost too awful to be true,--even about any one else. The man had come to her, and had asked her to be his wife,--and yet at that very moment was living in habits of daily intercourse with another woman whom he had promised to marry! And then, too, his courtship with her had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and yet so long continued! Though he had been slow in speech, she had known since their first meeting how he regarded her! The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her,--had been intelligible, gentle, and affectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had therefore hesitated. He had kept himself from her because he had owed so much to friendship. And yet his love had not been the less true, and had not been less dear to poor Hetta. She had waited, sure that it would come,--having absolute confidence in his honour and love. And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and at the same time so foolish, that she could find not only no excuse but no possible cause for it. It was not like any story she had heard before of man's faithlessness. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury,--but she knew also that nothing more would be said about the letter till the answer should come. Nor could she turn anywhere else for comfort. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself. As regarded him, for the present she could only rely on the assurance, which she continued to give herself, that she would not believe a word of the story that had been told her.

Poor Hetta passed a very bad night. Paul's courtship had been so graceful, so soft, so modest, and so long continued! The whole state of his mind had, she had thought, been visible to her - gentle and affectionate. He had been aware of her friends' feeling, and had therefore hesitated to declare himself. And yet his love had not been the less true. Poor Hetta had waited, having absolute confidence in his honour and love.
And now she was told that this man had been playing a game so base, and so foolish, that she could find no possible cause for it. Though she was wretched and sore at heart she swore to herself that she would not believe it. She knew that her mother would write to Roger Carbury. She did not dare to appeal to Paul himself.

Chapter 68: Miss Melmotte Declares her Purpose


But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had undertaken to give Marie Melmotte's message to her brother. She had done so, and she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in a very few words--"Everything is over!" But it had to be told.

But there was other wretchedness besides her own. She had given Marie Melmotte's message to her brother, and she must now let Marie have her brother's reply. That might be told in a very few words - "Everything is over!" But it had to be told.


"I want to call upon Miss Melmotte, if you'll let me," she said to her mother at breakfast.

"I want to call upon Miss Melmotte," she said to her mother at breakfast.


"Why should you want to see Miss Melmotte? I thought you hated the Melmottes?"

"Why? I thought you hated the Melmottes?"


"I don't hate them, mamma. I certainly don't hate her. I have a message to take to her,--from Felix."

"I don't hate her, mamma. I have a message for her, from Felix.


"It is an answer from him. She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. Whether he said so or not, it would be so. They could never be married now;--could they, mamma?"

She wanted to know if all that was over. Of course it is over. They could never be married now; could they, mamma?"


The marriage, in Lady Carbury's mind, was no longer even desirable. She, too, was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and did quite disbelieve that that wealth would come to her son, even should he succeed in marrying the daughter. It was impossible that Melmotte should forgive such offence as had now been committed. "It is out of the question," she said. "That, like everything else with us, has been a wretched failure. You can go, if you please. Felix is under no obligation to them, and has taken nothing from them. I should much doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now. You can't go alone, you know," Lady Carbury added. But Hetta said that she did not at all object to going alone as far as that. It was only just over Oxford Street.

Lady Carbury was beginning to disbelieve in the Melmotte wealth, and thought it impossible in any case that Melmotte should forgive Felix's offence.
"It is out of the question," she said. "You can go, if you please. I doubt whether the girl will get anybody to take her now."
So Hetta


So she went out and made her way into Grosvenor Square. She had heard, but at the time remembered nothing, of the temporary migration of the Melmottes to Bruton Street. Seeing, as she approached the house, that there was a confusion there of carts and workmen, she hesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open. Within the hall the pilasters and trophies, the wreaths and the banners, which three or four days since had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away. And amidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member of Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House. Nothing, at any rate, should prevent that. It might be but for a short time;--but it should be written in the history of his life that he had sat in the British House of Commons as member for Westminster. At the present moment he was careful to show himself everywhere. It was now noon, and he had already been into the City. At this moment he was talking to the contractor for the work,--having just propitiated that man by a payment which would hardly have been made so soon but for the necessity which these wretched stories had entailed upon him of keeping up his credit for the possession of money. Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte was there. "Do you want my daughter?" said Melmotte coming forward, and just touching his hat. "She is not living here at present."

 made her way to Grosvenor Square. Seeing a confusion of carts and workmen outside the house, she hesitated. But she went on, and rang the bell at the door, which was wide open. Within the hall, the pilasters, wreaths and banners, which had been built up with so much trouble, were now being pulled down and hauled away.
Amidst the ruins Melmotte himself was standing. He was now a member of Parliament, and was to take his place that night in the House. It might be only for a short time; but it should be written in the story of his life that he had sat in the House of Commons as member for Westminster.
At present he was careful to show himself everywhere. That morning he had already been into the City, and he was now propitiating the contractor about payment.
Hetta timidly asked one of the workmen whether Miss Melmotte was there.
"Do you want my daughter?" said Melmotte coming forward, and just touching his hat. "She is not living here at present.


"May I be allowed to tell her who was asking after her?" At the present moment Melmotte was not unreasonably suspicious about his daughter.


"I am Miss Carbury," said Hetta in a very low voice.


"Oh, indeed;--Miss Carbury!--the sister of Sir Felix Carbury?" There was something in the tone of the man's voice which grated painfully on Hetta's ears,--but she answered the question. "Oh;--Sir Felix's sister! May I be permitted to ask whether--you have any business with my daughter?" The story was a hard one to tell, with all the workmen around her, in the midst of the lumber, with the coarse face of the suspicious man looking down upon her; but she did tell it very simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been something between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must be all over. "I wonder whether that is true," said Melmotte, looking at her out of his great coarse eyes, with his eyebrows knit, with his hat on his head and his hands in his pockets. Hetta, not knowing how, at the moment, to repudiate the suspicion expressed, was silent. "Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously; yes,--by G----, infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what you are really after?"

"Oh, indeed! Sir Felix's sister! May I ask whether you have any business with my daughter?"
The story was a hard one to tell; but she did tell it very simply. She had come with a message from her brother. There had been something between her brother and Miss Melmotte, and her brother had felt that it would be best that he should acknowledge that it must all be over.
"I wonder whether that is true," said Melmotte, with his eyebrows knit. "Because, you know, there has been a deal of falsehood and double dealing. Sir Felix has behaved infamously. A day or two before my daughter started, he gave me a written assurance that the whole thing was over, and now he sends you here. How am I to know what you are really after?"


"I have come because I thought I could do some good," she said, trembling with anger and fear. "I was speaking to your daughter at your party."


"Oh, you were there;--were you? It may be as you say, but how is one to tell? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be suspicious, Miss Carbury." Here was one who had spent his life in lying to the world, and who was in his very heart shocked at the atrocity of a man who had lied to him! "You are not plotting another journey to Liverpool;--are you?" To this Hetta could make no answer. The insult was too much, but alone, unsupported, she did not know how to give him back scorn for scorn. At last he proposed to take her across to Bruton Street himself, and at his bidding she walked by his side. "May I hear what you say to her?" he asked.

"Oh, you were there, were you? When one has been deceived like that, one is apt to be suspicious, Miss Carbury. You are not plotting another journey to Liverpool; are you? I will take you across to Bruton Street to see her."
At his bidding she walked by his side. "May I hear what you say to her?" he asked.


"If you suspect me, Mr. Melmotte, I had better not see her at all. It is only that there may no longer be any doubt."


"No;--I could not do that. But I have told you, and you can say it for me. If you please, I think I will go home now."

"No. But I have told you, and you can say it for me. If you please, I think I will go home now."


But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a subject. This girl she probably would believe. And though Melmotte himself found it difficult to trust anybody, he thought that there was more possible good than evil to be expected from the proposed interview. "Oh, you shall see her," he said. "I don't suppose she's such a fool as to try that kind of thing again." Then the door in Bruton Street was opened, and Hetta, repenting her mission, found herself almost pushed into the hall. She was bidden to follow Melmotte up-stairs, and was left alone in the drawing-room, as she thought, for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie crept into the room. "Miss Carbury," she said, "this is so good of you,--so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you would love me. You will; will you not?" and Marie, sitting down by the stranger, took her hand and encircled her waist.

But Melmotte knew that his daughter would not believe him on such a subject. This girl she probably would believe.
"Oh, you shall see her," he said. "I don't suppose she's such a fool as to try that kind of thing again."
The door in Bruton Street was opened, and Hetta found herself almost pushed into the hall. She was left alone in the drawing-room for a long time. Then the door was slowly opened and Marie crept into the room.
"Miss Carbury," she said, "this is so good of you! I do so love you for coming to me! You said you would love me. You will; will you not?" and Marie, sitting down, took her hand and encircled her waist.


"Mr. Melmotte has told you why I have come."


"Yes;--that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me." To poor Hetta such an announcement as this was horrible. "We are at daggers drawn. He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as though my very soul were not my own. I won't agree to that;--would you?" Hetta had not come there to preach disobedience, but could not fail to remember at the moment that she was not disposed to obey her mother in an affair of the same kind. "What does he say, dear?"

"Yes; that is, I don't know. I never believe what papa says to me." To poor Hetta this announcement was horrible. "He thinks I ought to do just what he tells me, as though my soul were not my own. I won't agree to that; would you? What does Felix say, dear?"


Hetta's message was to be conveyed in three words, and when those were told, there was nothing more to be said. "It must all be over, Miss Melmotte."


"Is that his message, Miss Carbury?" Hetta nodded her head. "Is that all?"


"What more can I say? The other night you told me to bid him send you word. And I thought he ought to do so. I gave him your message, and I have brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income of his own;--nothing at all."

"What more can I say? I gave him your message, and I have brought back the answer. My brother, you know, has no income - nothing at all."


"But I have," said Marie with eagerness.


"It does not depend upon papa. If papa treats me badly, I can give it to my husband. I know I can. If I can venture, cannot he?" "I think it is impossible."


"Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. All the people that one hears of that are really true to their loves never find anything impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that. That's what I want to know." She paused, but Hetta could not answer the question. "You must know about your brother. Don't you know whether he does love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me." Hetta was still silent. "Have you nothing to say?"

"Impossible! Nothing should be impossible. Does he love me, Miss Carbury? It all depends on that. That's what I want to know." She paused, but Hetta could not answer. "Does he love me? If you know I think you ought to tell me." Hetta was still silent. "Have you nothing to say?"


"Miss Melmotte--" began poor Hetta very slowly.

"Miss Melmotte-" began poor Hetta very slowly.


"Call me Marie. You said you would love me;--did you not? I don't even know what your name is."

"Call me Marie. I don't even know what your name is."


"Hetta;--that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have no brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell anybody again;--I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my mamma, though papa chooses that it should be thought so." All this she whispered, with rapid words, almost into Hetta's ear. "And papa is so cruel to me! He beats me sometimes." The new friend, round whom Marie still had her arm, shuddered as she heard this. "But I never will yield a bit for that. When he boxes and thumps me I always turn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you wonder that I want to have a friend? Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my lover? But,--if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?"

"Hetta; that's short for something. But it's very pretty. I have no brother, no sister. And I'll tell you, though you must not tell anybody: I have no real mother. Madame Melmotte is not my mamma. And papa is so cruel to me! He beats me sometimes." Hetta shuddered as she heard this. "But I never will yield for that. When he thumps me I turn and gnash my teeth at him. Can you be surprised that I should be always thinking of my lover? But if he doesn't love me, what am I to do then?"


"I don't know what I am to say," ejaculated Hetta amidst her sobs. Whether the girl was good or bad, to be sought or to be avoided, there was so much tragedy in her position that Hetta's heart was melted with sympathy.

"I don't know what to say." Hetta's heart was melted with sympathy.


"I wonder whether you love anybody, and whether he loves you," said Marie. Hetta certainly had not come there to talk of her own affairs, and made no reply to this. "I suppose you won't tell me about yourself."


"I wish I could tell you something for your own comfort."

"I wish I could tell you something for your comfort."


"I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing,--nothing. Why should not we walk out of the house, and be married any way? Nobody has a right to stop me. Papa could only turn me out of his house. I will venture if he will."

"I wonder what he fears. I should fear nothing. Why should we not walk out of the house, and be married anyway? Nobody has a right to stop me."


It seemed to Hetta that even listening to such a proposition amounted to falsehood,--to that guilt of which Mr. Melmotte had dared to suppose that she could be capable. "I cannot listen to it. Indeed I cannot listen to it. My brother is sure that he cannot--cannot--"

"Indeed my brother is sure that he cannot - cannot-"


"Cannot love me, Hetta! Say it out, if it is true."


"It is true," said Hetta. There came over the face of the other girl a stern hard look, as though she had resolved at the moment to throw away from her all soft womanly things. And she relaxed her hold on Hetta's waist. "Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you ask me for the truth."

"It is true," said Hetta.
There came over the face of the other girl a stern hard look, and she relaxed her hold on Hetta's waist.
"Oh, my dear, I do not mean to be cruel, but you asked me for the truth."


"I suppose not," said Marie slowly. "What liars they are, what brutes;--what wretches! Why should he tell me lies like that? Why should he break my heart? That other man never said that he loved me. Did he never love me,--once?"

"I suppose not," said Marie slowly. "What liars they are, what brutes; what wretches! Why should he break my heart? Did he never love me?"


Hetta could hardly say that her brother was incapable of such love as Marie expected, but she knew that it was so. "It is better that you should think of him no more."


"Are you like that? If you had loved a man and told him of it, and agreed to be his wife and done as I have, could you bear to be told to think of him no more,--just as though you had got rid of a servant or a horse? I won't love him. No;--I'll hate him. But I must think of him. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds that we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted."

"Could you? If you had loved a man and agreed to be his wife, could you bear to be told to think of him no more? I won't love him. No; I'll hate him. But I must think of him. I'll marry that other man to spite him, and then, when he finds that we are rich, he'll be broken-hearted."


"Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. I command you not to tell him that. Tell him,--tell him, that I hate him, and that if I ever meet him, I will look at him so that he shall never forget it. I could,--oh!--you do not know what I could do. Tell me;--did he tell you to say that he did not love me?"

"Never. Do not tell him that I forgive him. Tell him that I hate him. Did he tell you to say that he did not love me?"


"I am glad you have come. It was very kind. I don't hate you. Of course I ought to know. But did he say that I was to be told that he did not love me?"


"Then how do you know? What did he say?"


"Because he is afraid of papa. Are you sure he does not love me?"


"Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-hearted liar, and that I trample him under my foot." Marie as she said this thrust her foot upon the ground as though that false one were in truth beneath it,--and spoke aloud, as though regardless who might hear her. "I despise him;--despise him. They are all bad, but he is the worst of all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles me and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me, and I could have borne it. But to think that he was a liar all the time;--that I can't bear." Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissed her, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa.

"Then he is a brute. Tell him that I say that he is a false-hearted liar, and that I trample him under my foot. I despise him. He is the worst of all. Papa beats me, but I can bear that. Mamma reviles me and I can bear that. He might have beaten me and reviled me, and I could have borne it. But to think that he was a liar all the time; that I can't bear."
Then she burst into tears. Hetta kissed her, tried to comfort her, and left her sobbing on the sofa.


Later in the day, two or three hours after Miss Carbury had gone, Marie Melmotte, who had not shown herself at luncheon, walked into Madame Melmotte's room, and thus declared her purpose. "You can tell papa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases." She spoke in French and very rapidly.

Two or three hours later, Marie Melmotte walked into Madame Melmotte's room, and declared: "You can tell papa that I will marry Lord Nidderdale whenever he pleases."


On hearing this Madame Melmotte expressed herself to be delighted. "Your papa," said she, "will be very glad to hear that you have thought better of this at last. Lord Nidderdale is, I am sure, a very good young man."

"Your papa will be very glad to hear it," said Madame Melmotte.


"Yes," continued Marie, boiling over with passion as she spoke. "I'll marry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr. Grendall who is worse than all the others, or his old fool of a father,--or the sweeper at the crossing,--or the black man that waits at table, or anybody else that he chooses to pick up. I don't care who it is the least in the world. But I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdale repent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa." And then, having thus entrusted her message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left the room.

"Yes," continued Marie passionately. "I'll marry Lord Nidderdale, or that horrid Mr. Grendall, or his old fool of a father - or the sweeper at the crossing, or anybody else that he chooses. I don't care who it is. But I'll lead him such a life afterwards! I'll make Lord Nidderdale repent the hour he saw me! You may tell papa." And having entrusted this message to Madame Melmotte, Marie left the room.


During the last six weeks Lady Carbury had lived a life of very mixed depression and elevation. Her great work had come out,--the "Criminal Queens,"--and had been very widely reviewed. In this matter it had been by no means all pleasure, in as much as many very hard words had been said of her. In spite of the dear friendship between herself and Mr. Alf, one of Mr. Alf's most sharp-nailed subordinates had been set upon her book, and had pulled it to pieces with almost rabid malignity. One would have thought that so slight a thing could hardly have been worthy of such protracted attention. Error after error was laid bare with merciless prolixity. No doubt the writer of the article must have had all history at his finger-ends, as in pointing out the various mistakes made he always spoke of the historical facts which had been misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented, as being familiar in all their bearings to every schoolboy of twelve years old. The writer of the criticism never suggested the idea that he himself, having been fully provided with books of reference, and having learned the art of finding in them what he wanted at a moment's notice, had, as he went on with his work, checked off the blunders without any more permanent knowledge of his own than a housekeeper has of coals when she counts so many sacks into the coal-cellar. He spoke of the parentage of one wicked ancient lady, and the dates of the frailties of another, with an assurance intended to show that an exact knowledge of all these details abided with him always. He must have been a man of vast and varied erudition, and his name was Jones. The world knew him not, but his erudition was always there at the command of Mr. Alf,--and his cruelty. The greatness of Mr. Alf consisted in this, that he always had a Mr. Jones or two ready to do his work for him. It was a great business, this of Mr. Alf's, for he had his Jones also for philology, for science, for poetry, for politics, as well as for history, and one special Jones, extraordinarily accurate and very well posted up in his references, entirely devoted to the Elizabethan drama.

During the last six weeks Lady Carbury had lived a life of mixed depression and elevation. Her "Criminal Queens" had come out, and had been widely reviewed. However, many hard words had been said of her. In spite of the dear friendship between herself and Mr. Alf, one of Mr. Alf's most sharp-nailed subordinates had been set upon her book, and had pulled it to pieces with rabid malignity. Error after error was laid bare without mercy. The writer pointed out basic historical facts which had been misquoted, misdated, or misrepresented. He checked off the blunders with an assurance intended to show that he himself had an exact knowledge of all these details.
This learned man was called Jones. The world knew him not, but his learning was at the command of Mr. Alf. Mr. Alf always had a Mr. Jones or two ready to do his work for him. He had his Jones for science, for poetry, for politics, as well as for history, and one special Jones entirely devoted to the Elizabethan drama.


There is the review intended to sell a book,--which comes out immediately after the appearance of the book, or sometimes before it; the review which gives reputation, but does not affect the sale, and which comes a little later; the review which snuffs a book out quietly; the review which is to raise or lower the author a single peg, or two pegs, as the case may be; the review which is suddenly to make an author, and the review which is to crush him. An exuberant Jones has been known before now to declare aloud that he would crush a man, and a self-confident Jones has been known to declare that he has accomplished the deed. Of all reviews, the crushing review is the most popular, as being the most readable. When the rumour goes abroad that some notable man has been actually crushed,--been positively driven over by an entire Juggernaut's car of criticism till his literary body be a mere amorphous mass,--then a real success has been achieved, and the Alf of the day has done a great thing; but even the crushing of a poor Lady Carbury, if it be absolute, is effective. Such a review will not make all the world call for the "Evening Pulpit," but it will cause those who do take the paper to be satisfied with their bargain. Whenever the circulation of such a paper begins to slacken, the proprietors should, as a matter of course, admonish their Alf to add a little power to the crushing department.

There is the review intended to sell a book, which comes out immediately after the book's appearance; there is the review which gives reputation, which comes a little later; the review which snuffs a book out quietly; the review which is suddenly to make an author, and the review which is to crush him. Of all reviews, the crushing review is the most readable and the most popular. When the rumour goes abroad that some notable man has been crushed - been positively driven over by an entire Juggernaut of criticism - then a real success has been achieved; but even the crushing of a Lady Carbury is effective, and will cause those who buy the paper to be satisfied with their bargain. Whenever the circulation of a newspaper begins to slacken, the proprietors should, as a matter of course, add a little power to the crushing department.


Lady Carbury had been crushed by the "Evening Pulpit." We may fancy that it was easy work, and that Mr. Alf's historical Mr. Jones was not forced to fatigue himself by the handling of many books of reference. The errors did lie a little near the surface; and the whole scheme of the work, with its pandering to bad tastes by pretended revelations of frequently fabulous crime, was reprobated in Mr. Jones's very best manner. But the poor authoress, though utterly crushed, and reduced to little more than literary pulp for an hour or two, was not destroyed. On the following morning she went to her publishers, and was closeted for half an hour with the senior partner, Mr. Leadham. "I've got it all in black and white," she said, full of the wrong which had been done her, "and can prove him to be wrong. It was in 1522 that the man first came to Paris, and he couldn't have been her lover before that. I got it all out of the 'Biographie Universelle.' I'll write to Mr. Alf myself,--a letter to be published, you know."

Lady Carbury had been crushed by the Evening Pulpit in Mr. Jones's very best manner. But the poor authoress, though reduced to little more than literary pulp for an hour or two, was not destroyed. On the following morning she went to her publishers, and met the senior partner, Mr. Leadham.
"I've got it all in black and white," she said, "and can prove him to be wrong. It was in 1522 that the man first came to Paris, and he couldn't have been her lover before that. I got it all out of the 'Biographie Universelle.' I'll write to Mr. Alf myself - a letter to be published, you know."


"Pray don't do anything of the kind, Lady Carbury."


"I've got all the facts,--and the figures."


Mr. Leadham did not care a straw for facts or figures,--had no opinion of his own whether the lady or the reviewer were right; but he knew very well that the "Evening Pulpit" would surely get the better of any mere author in such a contention. "Never fight the newspapers, Lady Carbury. Who ever yet got any satisfaction by that kind of thing? It's their business, and you are not used to it."

Mr. Leadham did not care a straw for facts or figures; but he knew very well that the Evening Pulpit would get the better of any mere author in such an argument. "Never fight the newspapers, Lady Carbury."


"And Mr. Alf is my particular friend! It does seem so hard," said Lady Carbury, wiping hot tears from her cheeks.

"And Mr. Alf is my particular friend! It does seem so hard," said Lady Carbury, wiping tears from her cheeks.


"It won't do us the least harm, Lady Carbury."


"Not much. A book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very long, you know. The 'Breakfast Table' gave it an excellent lift, and came just at the right time. I rather like the notice in the 'Pulpit,' myself."

A book of that sort couldn't hope to go on very long, you know. The Breakfast Table gave it an excellent lift, just at the right time. I rather like the notice in the Pulpit, myself."


"Like it!" said Lady Carbury, still suffering in every fibre of her self-love from the soreness produced by those Juggernaut's car-wheels.


"Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury. A great many people remember simply that the book has been noticed, but carry away nothing as to the purport of the review. It's a very good advertisement."

"Anything is better than indifference, Lady Carbury. A great many people remember simply that the book has been noticed. It's a very good advertisement."


"But to be told that I have got to learn the ABC of history,--after working as I have worked!"

"But to be told that I have got to learn the ABC of history!"


"That's a mere form of speech, Lady Carbury."


"You think the book has done pretty well?"


"Pretty well;--just about what we hoped, you know."

"Pretty well; just about what we hoped, you know."


"There'll be something coming to me, Mr. Leadham?"


Mr. Leadham sent for a ledger, and turned over a few pages and ran up a few figures, and then scratched his head. There would be something, but Lady Carbury was not to imagine that it could be very much. It did not often happen that a great deal could be made by a first book. Nevertheless, Lady Carbury, when she left the publisher's shop, did carry a cheque with her. She was smartly dressed and looked very well, and had smiled on Mr. Leadham. Mr. Leadham, too, was no more than man, and had written--a small cheque.

Mr. Leadham sent for a ledger, and ran up a few figures, and then scratched his head. There would be something, but Lady Carbury was not to imagine that it could be very much. A first book did not often make a great deal.
Nevertheless, Lady Carbury, when she left the publisher's shop, did carry a cheque. She was smartly dressed, and had smiled on Mr. Leadham. Mr. Leadham was no more than man, and had written a small cheque.


Mr. Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr. Broune of the "Breakfast Table," and Mr. Booker of the "Literary Chronicle," had been true to her interests. Lady Carbury had, as she promised, "done" Mr. Booker's "New Tale of a Tub" in the "Breakfast Table." That is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr. Broune's eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr. Broune's sleeve, and suggesting to Mr. Broune that no one understood her so well as he did, to bedaub Mr. Booker's very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion,--and to be paid for her work. What had been said about his work in the "Breakfast Table" had been very distasteful to poor Mr. Booker. It grieved his inner contemplative intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon him; but in his outside experience of life he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the manner to which he had unfortunately become accustomed. So Mr. Booker himself wrote the article on the "Criminal Queens" in the "Literary Chronicle," knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish. "Remarkable vivacity." "Power of delineating character." "Excellent choice of subject." "Considerable intimacy with the historical details of various periods." "The literary world would be sure to hear of Lady Carbury again." The composition of the review, together with the reading of the book, consumed altogether perhaps an hour of Mr. Booker's time. He made no attempt to cut the pages, but here and there read those that were open. He had done this kind of thing so often, that he knew well what he was about. He could have reviewed such a book when he was three parts asleep. When the work was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh. He felt it to be hard upon him that he should be compelled, by the exigencies of his position, to descend so low in literature; but it did not occur to him to reflect that in fact he was not compelled, and that he was quite at liberty to break stones, or to starve honestly, if no other honest mode of carrying on his career was open to him. "If I didn't, somebody else would," he said to himself.

Mr. Alf certainly had behaved badly to her; but both Mr. Broune of the Breakfast Table, and Mr. Booker of the Literary Chronicle, had been true. Lady Carbury had, as she promised, "done" Mr. Booker's "New Tale of a Tub" in the Breakfast Table. That is, she had been allowed, as a reward for looking into Mr. Broune's eyes, and laying her soft hand on Mr. Broune's sleeve, to bedaub Mr. Booker's very thoughtful book in a very thoughtless fashion, and to be paid for it.
Her review had been very distasteful to poor Mr. Booker. It grieved his intelligence that such rubbish should be thrown upon him; but he knew that even the rubbish was valuable, and that he must pay for it in the usual manner. So Mr. Booker himself reviewed "Criminal Queens" in the Literary Chronicle, knowing that what he wrote would also be rubbish. "Remarkable vivacity." "Power of delineating character." "Excellent choice of subject." "The literary world would be sure to hear of Lady Carbury again." The writing of the review, together with the reading of the book, took him perhaps an hour. He had done this kind of thing so often that he knew what he was about. When the work was done he threw down his pen and uttered a deep sigh, feeling it hard that he had to descend so low in literature. "If I didn't, somebody else would," he said to himself.


But the review in the "Morning Breakfast Table" was the making of Lady Carbury's book, as far as it ever was made. Mr. Broune saw the lady after the receipt of the letter given in the first chapter of this Tale, and was induced to make valuable promises which had been fully performed. Two whole columns had been devoted to the work, and the world had been assured that no more delightful mixture of amusement and instruction had ever been concocted than Lady Carbury's "Criminal Queens." It was the very book that had been wanted for years. It was a work of infinite research and brilliant imagination combined. There had been no hesitation in the laying on of the paint. At that last meeting Lady Carbury had been very soft, very handsome, and very winning; Mr. Broune had given the order with good will, and it had been obeyed in the same feeling.

But the review in the Morning Breakfast Table was the making of Lady Carbury's book, as far as it ever was made. Two whole columns had been devoted to the work, assuring the world that no more delightful mixture of amusement and instruction had ever been concocted than Criminal Queens. It was the very book that had been wanted for years. At that last meeting Lady Carbury had been very soft and very handsome; Mr. Broune had given the order, and it had been obeyed.


Therefore, though the crushing had been very real, there had also been some elation; and as a net result, Lady Carbury was disposed to think that her literary career might yet be a success. Mr. Leadham's cheque had been for a small amount, but it might probably lead the way to something better. People at any rate were talking about her, and her Tuesday evenings at home were generally full. But her literary life, and her literary successes, her flirtations with Mr. Broune, her business with Mr. Booker, and her crushing by Mr. Alf's Mr. Jones, were after all but adjuncts to that real inner life of hers of which the absorbing interest was her son. And with regard to him too she was partly depressed, and partly elated, allowing her hopes however to dominate her fears. There was very much to frighten her. Even the moderate reform in the young man's expenses which had been effected under dire necessity had been of late abandoned. Though he never told her anything, she became aware that during the last month of the hunting season he had hunted nearly every day. She knew, too, that he had a horse up in town. She never saw him but once in the day, when she visited him in his bed about noon, and was aware that he was always at his club throughout the night. She knew that he was gambling, and she hated gambling as being of all pastimes the most dangerous. But she knew that he had ready money for his immediate purposes, and that two or three tradesmen who were gifted with a peculiar power of annoying their debtors, had ceased to trouble her in Welbeck Street. For the present, therefore, she consoled herself by reflecting that his gambling was successful. But her elation sprung from a higher source than this. From all that she could hear, she thought it likely that Felix would carry off the great prize; and then,--should he do that,--what a blessed son would he have been to her! How constantly in her triumph would she be able to forget all his vices, his debts, his gambling, his late hours, and his cruel treatment of herself! As she thought of it the bliss seemed to be too great for the possibility of realisation. She was taught to understand that 10,000 a year, to begin with, would be the least of it; and that the ultimate wealth might probably be such as to make Sir Felix Carbury the richest commoner in England. In her very heart of hearts she worshipped wealth, but desired it for him rather than for herself. Then her mind ran away to baronies and earldoms, and she was lost in the coming glories of the boy whose faults had already nearly engulfed her in his own ruin.

Therefore, despite the crushing, there had also been some elation; and overall Lady Carbury was disposed to think that her literary career might yet be a success. The small cheque might lead to something better. People at any rate were talking about her, and her Tuesday evenings at home were generally full.
But her literary life and successes were only adjuncts to her real inner life, of which the absorbing interest was her son. About him too she was partly depressed, and partly elated. There was very much to frighten her. Any moderate reform in the young man's expenses had been abandoned. Though he never told her anything, she became aware that during the last month of the hunting season he hunted nearly every day. She knew he had a horse in town. She only saw him at noon, and was aware that he was always at his club throughout the night, gambling, which she hated. But she knew that he had ready money, and that two or three tradesmen had ceased to trouble her in Welbeck Street. For the present, therefore, she consoled herself by reflecting that his gambling was successful.
But her elation sprung from a higher source. From all that she could hear, she thought it likely that Felix would carry off the great prize of Marie Melmotte; and then what a blessed son would he have been! She would be able to forget all his vices, his debts, his gambling, and his cruel treatment of herself! The bliss seemed too great to be possible. She understood that 10,000 a year to start with would be the least of it; and that the ultimate wealth might make Sir Felix Carbury the richest commoner in England. She desired it for him rather than for herself. Then her mind ran away to baronies and earldoms, and she was lost in the coming glories of the boy whose faults had nearly ruined her.


And she had another ground for elation, which comforted her much, though elation from such a cause was altogether absurd. She had discovered that her son had become a Director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company. She must have known,--she certainly did know,--that Felix, such as he was, could not lend assistance by his work to any company or commercial enterprise in the world. She was aware that there was some reason for such a choice hidden from the world, and which comprised and conveyed a falsehood. A ruined baronet of five-and-twenty, every hour of whose life since he had been left to go alone had been loaded with vice and folly,--whose egregious misconduct warranted his friends in regarding him as one incapable of knowing what principle is,--of what service could he be, that he should be made a Director? But Lady Carbury, though she knew that he could be of no service, was not at all shocked. She was now able to speak up a little for her boy, and did not forget to send the news by post to Roger Carbury. And her son sat at the same Board with Mr. Melmotte! What an indication was this of coming triumphs!

She had another ground for elation: her son had become a Director of the South Central Pacific and Mexican Railway Company. She was aware that there was some reason for such a choice that was hidden from the world. A ruined baronet of five-and-twenty, whose life had been loaded with vice and folly - of what use could he be? But Lady Carbury was not shocked. She was now able to speak up for her boy, and sent the news by post to Roger Carbury. Her son on the same Board with Mr. Melmotte! What a sign of coming triumphs!


Fisker had started, as the reader will perhaps remember, on the morning of Saturday, 19th April, leaving Sir Felix at the Club at about seven in the morning. All that day his mother was unable to see him. She found him asleep in his room at noon and again at two; and when she sought him again he had flown. But on the Sunday she caught him. "I hope," she said, "you'll stay at home on Tuesday evening." Hitherto she had never succeeded in inducing him to grace her evening parties by his presence.

Fisker had departed on the 19th of April, leaving Sir Felix at the Club. All that day his mother was unable to see him. She found him asleep in his room at noon and again at two; and when she sought him again he had flown. But the next day she caught him.
"I hope," she said, "you'll stay at home on Tuesday evening." Hitherto she had never succeeded in inducing him to attend her evening parties.


"All your people are coming! You know, mother, it is such an awful bore."


"Madame Melmotte and her daughter will be here."


"One looks such a fool carrying on that kind of thing in one's own house. Everybody sees that it has been contrived. And it is such a pokey, stuffy little place!"

"One looks such a fool carrying on that kind of thing in one's own house. Everybody sees that it has been contrived."


Then Lady Carbury spoke out her mind. "Felix, I think you must be a fool. I have given over ever expecting that you would do anything to please me. I sacrifice everything for you and I do not even hope for a return. But when I am doing everything to advance your own interests, when I am working night and day to rescue you from ruin, I think you might at any rate help a little,--not for me of course, but for yourself."

Then Lady Carbury spoke her mind. "Felix, I think you must be a fool. I have given up expecting that you would do anything to please me. I sacrifice everything for you and I do not even hope for a return. But when I am working night and day to rescue you from ruin, I think you might at any rate help a little - not for me, but for yourself."


"I don't know what you mean by working day and night. I don't want you to work day and night."


"There is hardly a young man in London that is not thinking of this girl, and you have chances that none of them have. I am told they are going out of town at Whitsuntide, and that she's to meet Lord Nidderdale down in the country."


"She can't endure Nidderdale. She says so herself."


"She will do as she is told,--unless she can be made to be downright in love with some one like yourself. Why not ask her at once on Tuesday?"

"She will do as she is told - unless she can be made to be in love with someone like yourself. Why not offer for her on Tuesday?"


"If I'm to do it at all I must do it after my own fashion. I'm not going to be driven."

"If I'm to do it I must do it in my own way. I'm not going to be driven."


"Of course if you will not take the trouble to be here to see her when she comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think that you really love her."

"Of course if you will not take the trouble to see her when she comes to your own house, you cannot expect her to think that you love her."


"Love her! what a bother there is about loving! Well;--I'll look in. What time do the animals come to feed?"

"Love her! what a bother there is about loving! Well; I'll look in. What time do the animals come to feed?"


"There will be no feeding. Felix, you are so heartless and so cruel that I sometimes think I will make up my mind to let you go your own way and never to speak to you again. My friends will be here about ten;--I should say from ten till twelve. I think you should be here to receive her, not later than ten."

"There will be no feeding. Felix, you are so heartless that I sometimes think I will let you go your own way and never speak to you again. You should be here not later than ten."


"If I can get my dinner out of my throat by that time, I will come."

"If I can get my dinner by that time, I will come."


When the Tuesday came, the over-driven young man did contrive to get his dinner eaten, and his glass of brandy sipped, and his cigar smoked, and perhaps his game of billiards played, so as to present himself in his mother's drawing-room not long after half-past ten. Madame Melmotte and her daughter were already there,--and many others, of whom the majority were devoted to literature. Among them Mr. Alf was in the room, and was at this very moment discussing Lady Carbury's book with Mr. Booker. He had been quite graciously received, as though he had not authorised the crushing. Lady Carbury had given him her hand with that energy of affection with which she was wont to welcome her literary friends, and had simply thrown one glance of appeal into his eyes as she looked into his face,--as though asking him how he had found it in his heart to be so cruel to one so tender, so unprotected, so innocent as herself. "I cannot stand this kind of thing," said Mr. Alf, to Mr. Booker. "There's a regular system of touting got abroad, and I mean to trample it down."

When the Tuesday came, the young man did contrive to get his dinner eaten, and his glass of brandy sipped, so as to present himself in his mother's drawing-room not long after half-past ten. Madame Melmotte and her daughter were already there, and many others. Mr. Alf was discussing Lady Carbury's book with Mr. Booker. He had been graciously received, as though he had not authorised the crushing. Lady Carbury had given him her hand, and had simply thrown one appealing glance into his eyes - as though asking how he had found it in his heart to be so cruel to one so unprotected as herself.
"I cannot stand this kind of thing," said Mr. Alf to Mr. Booker. "There's a regular system of touting got abroad, and I mean to trample it down."


"If you're strong enough," said Mr. Booker.


"Well, I think I am. I'm strong enough, at any rate, to show that I'm not afraid to lead the way. I've the greatest possible regard for our friend here;--but her book is a bad book, a thoroughly rotten book, an unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen works of established reputation, in pilfering from which she has almost always managed to misapprehend her facts, and to muddle her dates. Then she writes to me and asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best I could."

"Well, I think I am. I'm not afraid to lead the way. I've the greatest possible regard for our friend here; but her book is a thoroughly rotten book, an unblushing compilation from half-a-dozen other works, with misunderstood facts and muddled dates. Then she writes to me and asks me to do the best I can for her. I have done the best I could."


Mr. Alf knew very well what Mr. Booker had done, and Mr. Booker was aware of the extent of Mr. Alf's knowledge. "What you say is all very right," said Mr. Booker; "only you want a different kind of world to live in."

Mr. Alf knew very well what Mr. Booker had done, and Mr. Booker was aware of this.
"What you say is right," said Mr. Booker; "only you want a different kind of world to live in."


"Just so;--and therefore we must make it different. I wonder how our friend Broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the 'Criminal Queens' was the greatest historical work of modern days."

"Just so; and therefore we must make it different. I wonder how our friend Broune felt when he saw that his critic had declared that the Criminal Queens was the greatest historical work of modern days."


"I didn't see the notice. There isn't much in the book, certainly, as far as I have looked at it. I should have said that violent censure or violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn't want to break a butterfly on the wheel;--especially a friendly butterfly."

"I didn't see the notice. There isn't much in the book, certainly. I should have said that violent censure or violent praise would be equally thrown away upon it. One doesn't want to break a butterfly on the wheel; especially a friendly butterfly."


"As to the friendship, it should be kept separate. That's my idea," said Mr. Alf, moving away.

"The friendship should be kept separate," said Mr. Alf.


"I'll never forget what you've done for me,--never!" said Lady Carbury, holding Mr. Broune's hand for a moment, as she whispered to him.

"I'll never forget what you've done for me - never!" said Lady Carbury, holding Mr. Broune's hand.


"Nothing more than my duty," said he, smiling.


"I hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful," she replied. Then she let go his hand and moved away to some other guest. There was a dash of true sincerity in what she had said. Of enduring gratitude it may be doubtful whether she was capable: but at this moment she did feel that Mr. Broune had done much for her, and that she would willingly make him some return of friendship. Of any feeling of another sort, of any turn at the moment towards flirtation, of any idea of encouragement to a gentleman who had once acted as though he were her lover, she was absolutely innocent. She had forgotten that little absurd episode in their joint lives. She was at any rate too much in earnest at the present moment to think about it. But it was otherwise with Mr. Broune. He could not quite make up his mind whether the lady was or was not in love with him,--or whether, if she were, it was incumbent on him to indulge her;--and if so, in what manner. Then as he looked after her, he told himself that she was certainly very beautiful, that her figure was distinguished, that her income was certain, and her rank considerable. Nevertheless, Mr. Broune knew of himself that he was not a marrying man. He had made up his mind that marriage would not suit his business, and he smiled to himself as he reflected how impossible it was that such a one as Lady Carbury should turn him from his resolution.

"I hope you'll learn to know that a woman can really be grateful." She let go his hand and moved away to some other guest. At that moment she did feel that she would willingly make Mr. Broune some return of friendship. Of any flirtation, she was absolutely innocent. She had forgotten that little absurd episode in their lives.
But it was otherwise with Mr. Broune. He could not make up his mind whether the lady was in love with him - and if she were, whether he ought to indulge her; and if so, in what manner. She was certainly very beautiful, her figure was distinguished, her income certain, and her rank considerable. Nevertheless, Mr. Broune knew that he was not a marrying man. He had made up his mind that marriage would not suit his business, and Lady Carbury would not turn him from his resolution.


"I am so glad that you have come to-night, Mr. Alf," Lady Carbury said to the high-minded editor of the "Evening Pulpit."

"I am so glad that you have come tonight, Mr. Alf," Lady Carbury said to the high-minded editor of the Evening Pulpit.


"Am I not always glad to come, Lady Carbury?"


"That you might perhaps have felt that I should be unwilling to welcome you after,--well, after the compliments of last Thursday."

that you might perhaps have felt that I should be unwilling to welcome you after - well, after the compliments of last Thursday."


"I never allow the two things to join themselves together. You see, Lady Carbury, I don't write all these things myself."

"Lady Carbury, I don't write all these things myself."


"No indeed. What a bitter creature you would be if you did."


"To tell the truth, I never write any of them. Of course we endeavour to get people whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case, it should unfortunately happen that the judgment of our critic should be hostile to the literary pretensions of a personal friend of my own, I can only lament the accident, and trust that my friend may have spirit enough to divide me as an individual from that Mr. Alf who has the misfortune to edit a newspaper."

"To tell the truth, I never write any of them. Of course we endeavour to get critics whose judgments we can trust, and if, as in this case, our critic's judgment is unfortunately hostile to a friend's book, I can only lament the accident, and trust that my friend may have spirit enough to divide me as an individual from Mr. Alf the editor."


"It is because you have so trusted me that I am obliged to you," said Lady Carbury with her sweetest smile. She did not believe a word that Mr. Alf had said to her. She thought, and thought rightly, that Mr. Alf's Mr. Jones had taken direct orders from his editor, as to his treatment of the "Criminal Queens." But she remembered that she intended to write another book, and that she might perhaps conquer even Mr. Alf by spirit and courage under her present infliction.

"It is because you have so trusted me that I am obliged to you," said Lady Carbury with her sweetest smile. She did not believe a word that Mr. Alf said. She thought, and thought rightly, that Mr. Alf's critic had taken direct orders from his editor as to his treatment of the "Criminal Queens." But she intended to write another book, and thought she might perhaps conquer even Mr. Alf by her courage.


It was Lady Carbury's duty on the occasion to say pretty things to everybody. And she did her duty. But in the midst of it all she was ever thinking of her son and Marie Melmotte, and she did at last venture to separate the girl from her mother. Marie herself was not unwilling to be talked to by Sir Felix. He had never bullied her, had never seemed to scorn her; and then he was so beautiful! She, poor girl, bewildered among various suitors, utterly confused by the life to which she was introduced, troubled by fitful attacks of admonition from her father, who would again, fitfully, leave her unnoticed for a week at a time; with no trust in her pseudo-mother--for poor Marie had in truth been born before her father had been a married man, and had never known what was her own mother's fate,--with no enjoyment in her present life, had come solely to this conclusion, that it would be well for her to be taken away somewhere by somebody. Many a varied phase of life had already come in her way. She could just remember the dirty street in the German portion of New York in which she had been born and had lived for the first four years of her life, and could remember too the poor, hardly-treated woman who had been her mother. She could remember being at sea, and her sickness,--but could not quite remember whether that woman had been with her. Then she had run about the streets of Hamburgh, and had sometimes been very hungry, sometimes in rags,--and she had a dim memory of some trouble into which her father had fallen, and that he was away from her for a time. She had up to the present splendid moment her own convictions about that absence, but she had never mentioned them to a human being. Then her father had married her present mother in Francfort. That she could remember distinctly, as also the rooms in which she was then taken to live, and the fact that she was told that from henceforth she was to be a Jewess. But there had soon come another change. They went from Francfort to Paris, and there they were all Christians. From that time they had lived in various apartments in the French capital, but had always lived well. Sometimes there had been a carriage, sometimes there had been none. And then there came a time in which she was grown woman enough to understand that her father was being much talked about. Her father to her had always been alternately capricious and indifferent rather than cross or cruel, but just at this period he was cruel both to her and to his wife. And Madame Melmotte would weep at times and declare that they were all ruined. Then, at a moment, they burst out into sudden splendour at Paris. There was an hotel, with carriages and horses almost unnumbered;--and then there came to their rooms a crowd of dark, swarthy, greasy men, who were entertained sumptuously; but there were few women. At this time Marie was hardly nineteen, and young enough in manner and appearance to be taken for seventeen. Suddenly again she was told that she was to be taken to London, and the migration had been effected with magnificence. She was first taken to Brighton, where the half of an hotel had been hired, and had then been brought to Grosvenor Square, and at once thrown into the matrimonial market. No part of her life had been more disagreeable to her, more frightful, than the first months in which she had been trafficked for by the Nidderdales and Grassloughs. She had been too frightened, too much of a coward to object to anything proposed to her, but still had been conscious of a desire to have some hand in her own future destiny. Luckily for her, the first attempts at trafficking with the Nidderdales and Grassloughs had come to nothing; and at length she was picking up a little courage, and was beginning to feel that it might be possible to prevent a disposition of herself which did not suit her own tastes. She was also beginning to think that there might be a disposition of herself which would suit her own tastes.

It was Lady Carbury's duty to say pretty things to everybody. And she did her duty. But in the midst of it all she was thinking of her son and Marie Melmotte, and she did at last venture to separate the girl from her mother.
Marie was not unwilling to be talked to by Sir Felix. He had never bullied her, had never seemed to scorn her; and then he was so beautiful! She, poor girl, bewildered by suitors, utterly confused by the life to which she was introduced, troubled by fitful admonitions from her father, who would leave her unnoticed for a week at a time; with no trust in her pseudo-mother - for poor Marie had in truth been born before her father had married, and had never known her own mother's fate - she had concluded that it would be well for her to be taken away somewhere by somebody.
She had already led a varied life. She could just remember the dirty street in the German portion of New York where she had lived for her first four years, and could remember too the poor woman who had been her mother. She could remember being at sea, and her sickness, but could not quite remember whether that woman had been with her. Then she had run about the streets of Hamburg, sometimes very hungry, sometimes in rags - and she had a dim memory that her father had fallen into some trouble, and was away for a time.
Then her father had married her present mother in Frankfurt. She could remember that distinctly, and also the fact that she was told that from henceforth she was to be a Jewess. But soon they went to Paris, where they were all Christians. They had lived in various apartments in the French capital, sometimes with a carriage, sometimes not. She had realised that her father was being much talked about. He had always been capricious and indifferent rather than cruel, but at this period he was cruel both to her and to his wife. And Madame Melmotte would weep at times and declare that they were all ruined.
Then, at a moment, they burst out into sudden splendour at Paris. There was a hotel, with carriages and horses, and a crowd of dark, greasy men, who were entertained sumptuously in their rooms; but few women. At this time Marie was hardly nineteen. Suddenly again she was told that she was to be taken to London; and she had been brought to Grosvenor Square, and at once thrown into the matrimonial market.
No part of her life had been more disagreeable, more frightful, than the first months in which she had been trafficked for by the Nidderdales and Grassloughs. She had been too frightened to object, but still had wished to have some hand in her own future destiny. Luckily for her, the first attempts at trafficking with the Nidderdales and Grassloughs had come to nothing; and she was picking up a little courage, and was beginning to feel that it might be possible to prevent an alliance which she did not like. She was also beginning to think that there might be one which would suit her own tastes.


Felix Carbury was standing leaning against a wall, and she was seated on a chair close to him. "I love you better than anyone in the world," he said, speaking plainly enough for her to hear, perhaps indifferent as to the hearing of others.

Felix Carbury was leaning against a wall, and she was seated on a chair close to him.
"I love you better than anyone in the world," he said.


"Oh, Sir Felix, pray do not talk like that."


"You knew that before. Now I want you to say whether you will be my wife."


"How can I answer that myself? Papa settles everything."


"You may if you like," she replied in a very low whisper. It was thus that the greatest heiress of the day, the greatest heiress of any day if people spoke truly, gave herself away to a man without a penny.

"You may if you like," she replied in a very low whisper. It was thus that the greatest heiress of the day gave herself away to a man without a penny.


That evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden a note from Mr. Melmotte, which had been brought thither by a messenger from the city,--who had expected to have an immediate answer, as though Montague lived at the club.

That evening Montague was surprised to receive at the Beargarden this note from Mr. Melmotte.

Chapter 40: "Unanimity is the very Soul of these Things"


If not inconvenient would you call on me in Grosvenor Square to-morrow, Sunday, at half past eleven. If you are going to church, perhaps you will make an appointment in the afternoon; if not, the morning will suit best. I want to have a few words with you in private about the Company. My messenger will wait for answer if you are at the club.

If convenient would you call on me in Grosvenor Square tomorrow, Sunday, at half past eleven. I want to have a few words with you in private about the Company. My messenger will wait for an answer if you are at the club.


Paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor Square at the hour appointed,--abandoning any intentions which he might have had in reference to Sunday morning service. But this was not the only letter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings he found a note, containing only one line, which Mrs. Hurtle had found the means of sending to him after her return from Southend. "I am so sorry to have been away. I will expect you all to-morrow. W. H." The period of the reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day.

Paul immediately wrote to say that he would call at Grosvenor Square at the hour appointed. But this was not the only letter he received that evening. On his return to his lodgings he found a brief note, which Mrs. Hurtle had sent him after her return from Southend.
"I am so sorry to have been away. I will expect you all tomorrow. W. H." His reprieve was thus curtailed to less than a day.


On the Sunday morning he breakfasted late and then walked up to Grosvenor Square, much pondering what the great man could have to say to him. The great man had declared himself very plainly in the Board-room,--especially plainly after the Board had risen. Paul had understood that war was declared, and had understood also that he was to fight the battle single-handed, knowing nothing of such strategy as would be required, while his antagonist was a great master of financial tactics. He was prepared to go to the wall in reference to his money, only hoping that in doing so he might save his character and keep the reputation of an honest man. He was quite resolved to be guided altogether by Mr. Ramsbottom, and intended to ask Mr. Ramsbottom to draw up for him such a statement as would be fitting for him to publish. But it was manifest now that Mr. Melmotte would make some proposition, and it was impossible that he should have Mr. Ramsbottom at his elbow to help him.

On the Sunday morning he walked up to Grosvenor Square, pondering what the great man could have to say to him. In the Board-room, Paul had understood that war was declared, and that his antagonist was a master of financial tactics. He was prepared to lose his money, if in doing so he might save his character and reputation. He intended to ask Mr. Ramsbottom to draw up for him a fitting statement. But it now appeared that Mr. Melmotte would make some proposition, when there was no Mr. Ramsbottom at his elbow to help him.


He had been in Melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but had contented himself after that with leaving a card. He had heard much of the splendour of the place, but remembered simply the crush and the crowd, and that he had danced there more than once or twice with Hetta Carbury. When he was shown into the hall he was astonished to find that it was not only stripped, but was full of planks, and ladders, and trussels, and mortar. The preparations for the great dinner had been already commenced. Through all this he made his way to the stairs, and was taken up to a small room on the second floor, where the servant told him that Mr. Melmotte would come to him. Here he waited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard at the back. There was not a book in the room, or even a picture with which he could amuse himself. He was beginning to think whether his own personal dignity would not be best consulted by taking his departure, when Melmotte himself, with slippers on his feet and enveloped in a magnificent dressing-gown, bustled into the room. "My dear sir, I am so sorry. You are a punctual man I see. So am I. A man of business should be punctual. But they ain't always. Brehgert,--from the house of Todd, Brehgert, and Goldsheiner, you know,--has just been with me. We had to settle something about the Moldavian loan. He came a quarter late, and of course he went a quarter late. And how is a man to catch a quarter of an hour? I never could do it." Montague assured the great man that the delay was of no consequence. "And I am so sorry to ask you into such a place as this. I had Brehgert in my room down-stairs, and then the house is so knocked about! We get into a furnished house a little way off in Bruton Street to-morrow. Longestaffe lets me his house for a month till this affair of the dinner is over. By-the-bye, Montague, if you'd like to come to the dinner, I've got a ticket I can let you have. You know how they're run after." Montague had heard of the dinner, but had perhaps heard as little of it as any man frequenting a club at the west end of London. He did not in the least want to be at the dinner, and certainly did not wish to receive any extraordinary civility from Mr. Melmotte's hands. But he was very anxious to know why Mr. Melmotte should offer it. He excused himself saying that he was not particularly fond of big dinners, and that he did not like standing in the way of other people. "Ah, indeed," said Melmotte. "There are ever so many people of title would give anything for a ticket. You'd be astonished at the persons who have asked. We've had to squeeze in a chair on one side for the Master of the Buckhounds, and on another for the Bishop of--; I forget what bishop it is, but we had the two archbishops before. They say he must come because he has something to do with getting up the missionaries for Thibet. But I've got the ticket, if you'll have it." This was the ticket which was to have taken in Georgiana Longestaffe as one of the Melmotte family, had not Melmotte perceived that it might be useful to him as a bribe. But Paul would not take the bribe. "You're the only man in London then," said Melmotte, somewhat offended. "But at any rate you'll come in the evening, and I'll have one of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to you." Paul, not knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the evening. "I am particularly anxious," continued he, "to be civil to those who are connected with our great Railway, and of course, in this country, your name stands first,--next to my own."

He had been in Melmotte's house on the night of the ball, but remembered only the crush and the crowd, and that he had danced with Hetta Carbury. When he was shown into the hall he was astonished to find that it was stripped, and full of planks, ladders and mortar. The preparations for the great dinner had already commenced.
He was taken up to a small room on the second floor, where the servant told him that Mr. Melmotte would come to him. He waited a quarter of an hour looking out into the yard. There was not a book in the room with which he could amuse himself. He was beginning to wonder whether he should leave, when Melmotte, in a magnificent dressing-gown and slippers, bustled in.
"My dear sir, I am so sorry. You are a punctual man I see. A man of business should be punctual. But they ain't always. Brehgert has just been with me, about the Moldavian loan, and he came a quarter of an hour late."
Montague assured him that the delay was of no consequence.
"And I am so sorry to ask you into such a place as this. The house is so knocked about! We move into a furnished house in Bruton Street tomorrow - Longstaffe is letting me his house for a month till this dinner is over. By-the-bye, Montague, if you'd like to come to the dinner, I've got a ticket for you. You know how they're run after."
Montague did not in the least want to attend the dinner. But he was very anxious to know why Mr. Melmotte should offer it. He excused himself, saying that he was not fond of big dinners.
"Ah, indeed," said Melmotte. "Ever so many people would give anything for a ticket. You'd be astonished at the persons who have asked, archbishops and people of title."
But Paul would not take the bribe.
"You're the only man in London then," said Melmotte, somewhat offended. "At any rate you'll come in the evening, and I'll have one of Madame Melmotte's tickets sent to you." Paul, not knowing how to escape, said that he would come in the evening.
"I am particularly anxious," continued Melmotte, "to be civil to those who are connected with our great Railway, and of course, in this country, your name stands next to my own."


Then the great man paused, and Paul began to wonder whether it could be possible that he had been sent for to Grosvenor Square on a Sunday morning in order that he might be asked to dine in the same house a fortnight later. But that was impossible. "Have you anything special to say about the Railway?" he asked.

Then he paused.
"Have you anything special to say about the Railway?" asked Paul.


"Well, yes. It is so hard to get things said at the Board. Of course there are some there who do not understand matters."


"I doubt if there be any one there who does understand this matter," said Paul.

"I doubt if there is anyone there who does understand this matter," said Paul.


Melmotte affected to laugh. "Well, well; I am not prepared to go quite so far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in these affairs, and of course you are aware that he is in Parliament. And Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him credit for."

Melmotte pretended to laugh. "Well, well; I would not go quite so far as that. My friend Cohenlupe has had great experience in these affairs, and Lord Alfred sees farther into them than perhaps you give him credit for."


"Well, well. Perhaps you don't know him quite as well as I do." The scowl began to appear on Mr. Melmotte's brow. Hitherto it had been banished as well as he knew how to banish it. "What I wanted to say to you was this. We didn't quite agree at the last meeting."

"Perhaps you don't know him quite as well as I do." The scowl began to appear on Mr. Melmotte's brow. "What I wanted to say was this. We didn't quite agree at the last meeting."


"I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in the direction of such an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do--everything." Mr. Melmotte in the ecstasy of his enthusiasm lifted up both his hands over his head. "Without unanimity we can do--nothing." And the two hands fell. "Unanimity should be printed everywhere about a Board-room. It should, indeed, Mr. Montague."

"I was very sorry for it. Unanimity is everything in such an undertaking as this. With unanimity we can do - everything." Mr. Melmotte in his enthusiasm lifted both his hands over his head. "Without unanimity we can do - nothing." The two hands fell.


"But suppose the directors are not unanimous."


"They should be unanimous. They should make themselves unanimous. God bless my soul! You don't want to see the thing fall to pieces!"

"They should make themselves unanimous. God bless my soul! You don't want to see the thing fall to pieces!"


"Honestly! Who says that anything is dishonest?" Again the brow became very heavy. "Look here, Mr. Montague. If you and I quarrel in that Board-room, there is no knowing the amount of evil we may do to every individual shareholder in the Company. I find the responsibility on my own shoulders so great that I say the thing must be stopped. Damme, Mr. Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn't ruin widows and children, Mr. Montague. We mustn't let those shares run down 20 below par for a mere chimera. I've known a fine property blasted, Mr. Montague, sent straight to the dogs,--annihilated, sir;--so that it all vanished into thin air, and widows and children past counting were sent out to starve about the streets,--just because one director sat in another director's chair. I did, by G----! What do you think of that, Mr. Montague? Gentlemen who don't know the nature of credit, how strong it is,--as the air,--to buoy you up; how slight it is,--as a mere vapour,--when roughly touched, can do an amount of mischief of which they themselves don't in the least understand the extent! What is it you want, Mr. Montague?"

"Honestly! Who says that anything is dishonest?" The brow became very heavy. "Look here, Mr. Montague. If you and I quarrel in that Board-room, there is no knowing the evil we may do to every shareholder in the Company. I find the responsibility so great that I say the thing must be stopped. Damme, Mr. Montague, it must be stopped. We mustn't ruin widows and children by letting those shares run down for a mere fancy. I've known a fine property blasted, Mr. Montague, annihilated, sir; so that widows and children past counting were sent out to starve in the streets, just because one director sat in another director's chair, by G__! What is it you want, Mr. Montague?"


"What do I want?" Melmotte's description of the peculiar susceptibility of great mercantile speculations had not been given without some effect on Montague, but this direct appeal to himself almost drove that effect out of his mind. "I only want justice."


"But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the expense of other people. Look here, Mr. Montague. I suppose you are like the rest of us, in this matter. You want to make money out of it."

"But you should know what justice is before you demand it at the expense of other people. Look here, Mr. Montague. I suppose you are like the rest of us. You want to make money out of it."


"For myself, I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am not thinking of myself."

"I want interest for my capital; that is all. But I am not thinking of myself."


"You are getting very good interest. If I understand the matter,"--and here Melmotte pulled out a little book, showing thereby how careful he was in mastering details,--"you had about 6,000 embarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm. You imagine yourself to have that still."

"You are getting very good interest." Here Melmotte pulled out a little book. "You had about 6,000 embarked in the business when Fisker joined your firm.


"I can tell you then. You have that, and you've drawn nearly a thousand pounds since Fisker came over, in one shape or another. That's not bad interest on your money."

You still have that, and you've drawn nearly a thousand pounds since Fisker came over. That's not bad interest on your money."


"If so, it's due still. I've nothing to do with that. Look here, Mr. Montague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was about to propose, only for that little rumpus the other day, that, as you're an unmarried man, and have time on your hands, you should go out to California and probably across to Mexico, in order to get necessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried, and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course you'd go at the Company's expense. I would see to your own personal interests while you were away;--or you could appoint any one by power of attorney. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you; but, should anything occur amiss,--which it won't, for the thing is as sound as anything I know,--of course you, as absent, would not share the responsibility. That's what I was thinking. It would be a delightful trip;--but if you don't like it, you can of course remain at the Board, and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit I could devolve nearly the whole management on you;--and I must do something of the kind, as I really haven't the time for it. But,--if it is to be that way,--do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things;--the very soul, Mr. Montague."

"If so, it's due still. I've nothing to do with that. Look here, Mr. Montague. I am most anxious that you should remain with us. I was about to propose, but for that little rumpus the other day, that you should go out to California and across to Mexico, to get necessary information for the Company. Were I of your age, unmarried, and without impediment, it is just the thing I should like. Of course you'd go at the Company's expense. Your seat at the Board would be kept for you. It would be a delightful trip; but if you don't like it, you can of course remain at the Board, and be of the greatest use to me. Indeed, after a bit I could devolve nearly the whole management on you; and I must do something of the kind, as I really haven't the time for it. But do be unanimous. Unanimity is the very soul of these things, Mr. Montague."


"Well;--if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going out;--which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful. It might be the very making of the railway;--then I can only suggest that you should take your 6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be greatly distressed; but if you are determined that way I will see that you have your money. I will make myself personally responsible for the payment of it,--some time before the end of the year."

"Well; if you can't, and if you won't take my advice about going out; which, pray, think about, for you would be most useful - then I can only suggest that you should take your 6,000 and leave us. I, myself, should be greatly distressed; but if you are determined I will see that you have your money before the end of the year."


Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the whole matter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day. "And now, good-bye," said Mr. Melmotte, as he bade his young friend adieu in a hurry. "I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank Director, waiting down-stairs."

Paul Montague told the great man that he would consider the matter, and see him in Abchurch Lane before the next Board day.
"And now, good-bye," said Mr. Melmotte. "I'm afraid that I'm keeping Sir Gregory Gribe, the Bank Director, waiting downstairs."


Melmotte had got back his daughter, and was half inclined to let the matter rest there. He would probably have done so had he not known that all his own household were aware that she had gone off to meet Sir Felix Carbury, and had he not also received the condolence of certain friends in the city. It seemed that about two o'clock in the day the matter was known to everybody. Of course Lord Nidderdale would hear of it, and if so all the trouble that he had taken in that direction would have been taken in vain. Stupid fool of a girl to throw away her chance,--nay, to throw away the certainty of a brilliant career, in that way! But his anger against Sir Felix was infinitely more bitter than his anger against his daughter. The man had pledged himself to abstain from any step of this kind,--had given a written pledge,--had renounced under his own signature his intention of marrying Marie! Melmotte had of course learned all the details of the cheque for 250,--how the money had been paid at the bank to Didon, and how Didon had given it to Sir Felix. Marie herself acknowledged that Sir Felix had received the money. If possible he would prosecute the baronet for stealing his money.

Melmotte had got back his daughter, and was half inclined to let the matter rest there. He would probably have done so had it not become widely known that she had gone off to meet Sir Felix Carbury. Of course Lord Nidderdale would hear of it, and all the trouble that he had taken in that direction would be in vain. Stupid fool of a girl to throw away her chance in that way!
But his anger against Sir Felix was infinitely more bitter than his anger against his daughter. The man had given a written pledge not to marry Marie! Melmotte had of course learned all the details of the cheque for 250. Marie acknowledged that Sir Felix had received the money. If possible he would prosecute the baronet for theft.


Had Melmotte been altogether a prudent man he would probably have been satisfied with getting back his daughter and would have allowed the money to go without further trouble. At this especial point in his career ready money was very valuable to him, but his concerns were of such magnitude that 250 could make but little difference. But there had grown upon the man during the last few months an arrogance, a self-confidence inspired in him by the worship of other men, which clouded his intellect, and robbed him of much of that power of calculation which undoubtedly he naturally possessed. He remembered perfectly his various little transactions with Sir Felix. Indeed it was one of his gifts to remember with accuracy all money transactions, whether great or small, and to keep an account book in his head, which was always totted up and balanced with accuracy. He knew exactly how he stood, even with the crossing-sweeper to whom he had given a penny last Tuesday, as with the Longestaffes, father and son, to whom he had not as yet made any payment on behalf of the purchase of Pickering. But Sir Felix's money had been consigned into his hands for the purchase of shares,--and that consignment did not justify Sir Felix in taking another sum of money from his daughter. In such a matter he thought that an English magistrate, and an English jury, would all be on his side,--especially as he was Augustus Melmotte, the man about to be chosen for Westminster, the man about to entertain the Emperor of China!

Had Melmotte been prudent he would have allowed the money to go without further trouble. Although at this point ready money was very valuable to him, his concerns were of such magnitude that 250 could make little difference. But during the last few months there had grown in him an arrogance, a self-confidence inspired by the worship of other men, which clouded his intellect.
He remembered perfectly his various little transactions with Sir Felix. Indeed it was one of his gifts to remember accurately all money transactions. But Sir Felix's money had been handed to him for the purchase of shares, and did not justify Sir Felix in taking money from his daughter. He thought that an English magistrate would be on his side - especially as he was Augustus Melmotte, the man about to be chosen for Westminster, the man about to entertain the Emperor of China!


The next day was Friday,--the day of the Railway Board. Early in the morning he sent a note to Lord Nidderdale.

The next day was Friday, and he sent a note to Lord Nidderdale asking him to come to the Railway Board.


Pray come to the Board to-day;--or at any rate come to me in the city. I specially want to speak to you.


This he wrote, having made up his mind that it would be wise to make a clear breast of it with his hoped-for son-in-law. If there was still a chance of keeping the young lord to his guns that chance would be best supported by perfect openness on his part. The young lord would of course know what Marie had done. But the young lord had for some weeks past been aware that there had been a difficulty in regard to Sir Felix Carbury, and had not on that account relaxed his suit. It might be possible to persuade the young lord that as the young lady had now tried to elope and tried in vain, his own chance might on the whole be rather improved than injured.

He thought that it would be wise to make a clean breast of it with his hoped-for son-in-law. The young lord would of course know what Marie had done. But Nidderdale had already known that there was a difficulty in regard to Sir Felix Carbury, yet had not given up his suit. It might be possible to persuade him that his own chances might now be improved rather than injured.


Mr. Melmotte on that morning had many visitors, among whom one of the earliest and most unfortunate was Mr. Longestaffe. At that time there had been arranged at the offices in Abchurch Lane a mode of double ingress and egress,--a front stairs and a back stairs approach and exit, as is always necessary with very great men,--in reference to which arrangement the honour and dignity attached to each is exactly contrary to that which generally prevails in the world; the front stairs being intended for everybody, and being both slow and uncertain, whereas the back stairs are quick and sure, and are used only for those who are favoured. Miles Grendall had the command of the stairs, and found that he had plenty to do in keeping people in their right courses. Mr. Longestaffe reached Abchurch Lane before one,--having altogether failed in getting a moment's private conversation with the big man on that other Friday, when he had come later. He fell at once into Miles's hands, and was ushered through the front stairs passage and into the front stairs waiting-room, with much external courtesy. Miles Grendall was very voluble. Did Mr. Longestaffe want to see Mr. Melmotte? Oh;--Mr. Longestaffe wanted to see Mr. Melmotte as soon as possible! Of course Mr. Longestaffe should see Mr. Melmotte. He, Miles, knew that Mr. Melmotte was particularly desirous of seeing Mr. Longestaffe. Mr. Melmotte had mentioned Mr. Longestaffe's name twice during the last three days. Would Mr. Longestaffe sit down for a few minutes? Had Mr. Longestaffe seen the "Morning Breakfast Table"? Mr. Melmotte undoubtedly was very much engaged. At this moment a deputation from the Canadian Government was with him;--and Sir Gregory Gribe was in the office waiting for a few words. But Miles thought that the Canadian Government would not be long,--and as for Sir Gregory, perhaps his business might be postponed. Miles would do his very best to get an interview for Mr. Longestaffe,--more especially as Mr. Melmotte was so very desirous himself of seeing his friend. It was astonishing that such a one as Miles Grendall should have learned his business so well and should have made himself so handy! We will leave Mr. Longestaffe with the "Morning Breakfast Table" in his hands, in the front waiting-room, merely notifying the fact that there he remained for something over two hours.

Mr. Melmotte on that morning had many visitors, amongst them Mr. Longestaffe. His offices in Abchurch Lane had a front stairs and a back stairs; the front stairs being intended for everybody, whereas the back stairs were only for those who were favoured. Miles Grendall had the command of the stairs, and when Mr. Longestaffe reached Abchurch Lane, he fell at once into Miles's hands.
Miles ushered him through the front stairs passage and into the waiting-room, with much courtesy. Of course Mr. Longestaffe should see Mr. Melmotte as soon as possible. Would Mr. Longestaffe sit down for a few minutes? Mr. Melmotte was very much engaged. At this moment a deputation from the Canadian Government was with him; but Miles thought that they would not be long. Miles would do his very best to get an interview for Mr. Longestaffe.
We will leave Mr. Longestaffe in the front waiting-room, merely noting that he remained there for over two hours.


In the mean time both Mr. Broune and Lord Nidderdale came to the office, and both were received without delay. Mr. Broune was the first. Miles knew who he was, and made no attempt to seat him in the same room with Mr. Longestaffe. "I'll just send him a note," said Mr. Broune, and he scrawled a few words at the office counter. "I'm commissioned to pay you some money on behalf of Miss Melmotte." Those were the words, and they at once procured him admission to the sanctum. The Canadian Deputation must have taken its leave, and Sir Gregory could hardly have as yet arrived. Lord Nidderdale, who had presented himself almost at the same moment with the Editor, was shown into a little private room,--which was, indeed, Miles Grendall's own retreat. "What's up with the Governor?" asked the young lord.

In the meantime both Mr. Broune and Lord Nidderdale came to the office, and were received without delay. Mr. Broune was the first.
"I'm commissioned to pay some money on behalf of Miss Melmotte," said Mr. Broune - words which at once procured him admission to the sanctum. The Canadian Deputation must have taken its leave.
Lord Nidderdale, who had arrived almost at the same moment, was shown into a little private room.


"Anything particular do you mean?" said Miles. "There are always so many things up here."


"Yes,--you'll go in directly. There's that fellow who does the 'Breakfast Table' in with him. I don't know what he's come about. You know what he has sent for you for?"


Lord Nidderdale answered this question by another. "I suppose all this about Miss Melmotte is true?"

"I suppose all this about Miss Melmotte is true?" asked Nidderdale.


"She did go off yesterday morning," said Miles, in a whisper.


"Well, no;--I suppose not. He seems to have mulled it. He's such a d---- brute, he'd be sure to go wrong whatever he had in hand."


"You don't like him, of course, Miles. For that matter I've no reason to love him. He couldn't have gone. He staggered out of the club yesterday morning at four o'clock as drunk as Cloe. He'd lost a pot of money, and had been kicking up a row about you for the last hour."

He staggered out of the club yesterday morning at four o'clock, drunk. He'd lost a pot of money, and had been kicking up a row about you."


"Brute!" exclaimed Miles, with honest indignation.


"I dare say. But though he was able to make a row, I'm sure he couldn't get himself down to Liverpool. And I saw all his things lying about the club hall late last night;--no end of portmanteaux and bags; just what a fellow would take to New York. By George! Fancy taking a girl to New York! It was plucky."

"I dare say. But I'm sure he couldn't get himself down to Liverpool. And I saw all his things lying about the club hall late last night. By George!


"It was all her doing," said Miles, who was of course intimate with Mr. Melmotte's whole establishment, and had had means therefore of hearing the true story.


"What a fiasco!" said the young lord, "I wonder what the old boy means to say to me about it." Then there was heard the clear tingle of a little silver bell, and Miles told Lord Nidderdale that his time had come.

What a fiasco!" said the young lord. "I wonder what the old boy means to say to me about it."
Then there was heard the clear tingle of a little silver bell, and Miles told Lord Nidderdale that his time had come.