loved dancing with all her heart if she could only dance in a manner pleasant to herself.
She had been warned especially as to some men, — that she should not dance with them. She had been almost thrown into Lord Nidderdale’s arms, and had been prepared to take him at her father’s bidding. But she had never had the slightest pleasure in his society, and had only not been wretched because she had not as yet recognised that she had an identity of her own in the disposition of which she herself should have a voice. She certainly had never cared to dance with Lord Nidderdale. Lord Grasslough she had absolutely hated, though at first she had hardly dared to say so. One or two others had been obnoxious to her in different ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on, out of her way. There was no one at the present moment whom she had been commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made. But she did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury. It was not only that the man was handsome but that he had a power of changing the expression of his countenance, a play of face, which belied altogether his real disposition. He could seem to be hearty and true till the moment came in which he had really to expose his heart, — or to try to expose it. Then he failed, knowing nothing about it. But in the approaches to intimacy with a girl he could be very successful. He had already nearly got beyond this with Marie Melmotte; but Marie was by no means quick in discovering his deficiencies. To her he had seemed like a god. If she might be allowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and to give herself to him, she thought that she would be contented.
“How well you dance,” said Sir Felix, as soon as he had breath for speaking.
“Do I?” She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a little prettiness to her speech. “I was never told so. But nobody ever told me anything about myself.”
“I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the beginning to the end.”
“Ah, — but you don’t know.”
“I would find out. I think I could make some good guesses. I’ll tell you what you would like best in all the world.”
“What is that?”
“Somebody that liked you best in all the world.”
“Ah, — yes; if one knew who?”
“How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?”
“That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked me better than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she said so. I should have to find it out.”
“And if a gentleman told you so?”
“I shouldn’t believe him a bit, and I should not care to find out. But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself.”
“So should I.”
“Have you no particular friend?”
“I mean a girl whom I could love, — oh, ten times better than myself.”
“Now you are laughing at me, Sir Felix,” said Miss Melmotte.
“I wonder whether that will come to anything?” said Paul Montague to Miss Carbury. They had come back into the drawing-room, and had been watching the approaches to lovemaking 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
