girl whom I could love — oh, ten times better than myself.’
‘Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix,’ said Miss Melmotte.
‘I wonder whether that will come to anything?’ said Paul Montague to Miss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been watching the approaches to love-making which the baronet was opening.
‘You mean Felix and Miss Melmotte. I hate to think of such things, Mr Montague.’
‘It would be a magnificent chance for him.’
‘To marry a girl, the daughter of vulgar people, just because she will have a great deal of money? He can’t care for her really — because she is rich.’
‘But he wants money so dreadfully! It seems to me that there is no other condition of things under which Felix can face the world, but by being the husband of an heiress.’
‘What a dreadful thing to say!’
‘But isn’t it true? He has beggared himself.’
‘Oh, Mr Montague.’
‘And he will beggar you and your mother.’
‘I don’t care about myself.’
‘Others do though.’ As he said this he did not look at her, but spoke through his teeth, as if he were angry both with himself and her.
‘I did not think you would have spoken so harshly of Felix.’
‘I don’t speak harshly of him, Miss Carbury. I haven’t said that it was his own fault. He seems to be one of those who have been born to spend money; and as this girl will have plenty of money to spend, I think it would be a good thing if he were to marry her. If Felix had £20,000 a year, everybody would think him the finest fellow in the world.’ In saying this, however, Mr Paul Montague showed himself unfit to gauge the opinion of the world. Whether Sir Felix be rich or poor, the world, evil-hearted as it is, will never think him a fine fellow.
Lady Carbury had been seated for nearly half an hour in uncomplaining solitude under a bust, when she was delighted by the appearance of Mr Ferdinand Alf. ‘You here?’ she said.
‘Why not? Melmotte and I are brother adventurers.’
‘I should have thought you would find so little here to amuse you.’
‘I have found you; and, in addition to that, duchesses and their daughters without number. They expect Prince George!’
‘Do they?’
‘And Legge Wilson from the India Office is here already. I spoke to him in some jewelled bower as I made my way here, not five minutes since. It’s quite a success. Don’t you think it very nice, Lady Carbury?’
‘I don’t know whether you are joking or in earnest.’
‘I never joke. I say it is very nice. These people are spending thousands upon thousands to gratify you and me and others, and all they want in return is a little countenance.’
‘Do you mean to give it then?’
‘I am giving it them.’
‘Ah — but the countenance of the “Evening Pulpit.” Do you mean to give them that?’
‘Well; it is not in our line exactly to give a catalogue of names and to record ladies’ dresses. Perhaps it may be better for our host himself that he should be kept out of the newspapers.’
‘Are you going to be very severe upon poor me, Mr Alf?’ said the lady after a pause.
‘We are never severe upon anybody, Lady Carbury. Here’s the Prince. What will they do with him now they’ve caught him! Oh, they’re going to make him dance with the heiress. Poor heiress!’
‘Poor Prince!’ said Lady Carbury.
‘Not at all. She’s a nice little girl enough, and he’ll have nothing to trouble him. But how is she, poor thing, to talk to royal blood?’
Poor thing indeed! The Prince was brought into the big room where Marie was still being talked to by Felix Carbury, and was at once made to understand that she was to stand up and dance with royalty. The introduction was managed in a very business-like manner. Miles Grendall first came in and found the female victim; the Duchess followed with the male victim. Madame Melmotte, who had been on her legs till she was ready to sink, waddled behind, but was not allowed to take any part in the affair. The band were playing a galop, but that was stopped at once, to the great confusion of the dancers. In two minutes Miles Grendall had made up a set. He stood up with his aunt, the Duchess, as vis-à-vis to Marie and the Prince, till, about the middle of the quadrille, Legge Wilson was found and made to take his place. Lord Buntingford had gone away; but then there were still present two daughters of the Duchess who were rapidly caught. Sir Felix Carbury, being good-looking and having a name, was made to dance with one of them, and Lord Grasslough with the other. There were four other couples, all made up of titled people, as it was intended that this special dance should be chronicled, if not in the ‘Evening Pulpit,’ in some less serious daily journal. A paid reporter was present in the house ready to rush off with the list as soon as the dance should be a realized fact. The Prince himself did not quite understand why he was there, but they who marshalled his life for him had so marshalled it for the present moment. He himself probably knew nothing about the lady’s diamonds which had been rescued, or the considerable subscription to St. George’s Hospital which had been extracted from Mr Melmotte as a make-weight. Poor Marie felt as though the burden of the hour would be greater than she could bear, and looked as though she would have fled had flight been possible. But the trouble passed quickly, and was not really severe. The Prince said a word or two between each figure, and did not seem to expect a reply. He made a few words go a long way, and was well trained in the work of easing the burden of his own greatness for those who were for the moment inflicted with it. When the dance was over he was allowed to escape after the ceremony of a single glass of champagne drunk in the presence of the hostess. Considerable skill was shown in keeping the presence of his royal guest a secret from the host himself till the Prince was gone. Melmotte would have desired to pour out that glass of wine with his own hands, to solace his tongue by Royal Highnesses, and would probably have been troublesome and disagreeable. Miles Grendall had understood all this and had managed the affair very well. ‘Bless my soul; — his Royal Highness come and gone!’ exclaimed Melmotte. ‘You and my father were so fast at your whist that it was impossible to get you away,’ said Miles. Melmotte was not a fool, and understood it all; — understood not only that it had been thought better that he should not speak to the Prince, but also that it might be better that it should be so. He could not have everything at once. Miles Grendall was very useful to him, and he would not quarrel with Miles, at any rate as yet.
‘Have another rubber, Alfred?’ he said to Miles’s father as the carriages were taking away the guests.
Lord Alfred had taken sundry glasses of champagne, and for a moment forgot the bills in the safe, and the good things which his boys were receiving. ‘Damn that kind of nonsense,’ he said. ‘Call people by their proper names.’ Then he left the house without a further word to the master of it. That night before they went to sleep Melmotte required from his weary wife an account of the ball, and especially of Marie’s conduct. ‘Marie,’ Madame Melmotte said, ‘had behaved well, but had certainly preferred “Sir Carbury” to any other of the young men.’ Hitherto Mr Melmotte had heard very little of Sir Carbury, except that he was a baronet. Though his eyes and ears were always open, though he attended to everything, and was a man of sharp intelligence, he did not yet quite understand the bearing and sequence of English titles. He knew that he must get for his daughter either an eldest son, or one absolutely in possession himself. Sir Felix, he had learned, was only a baronet; but then he was in possession. He had discovered also that Sir Felix’s son would in course of time also become Sir Felix. He was not therefore at the present moment disposed to give any positive orders as to his daughter’s conduct to the young baronet. He did not, however, conceive that the young baronet