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 makeweight. 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 had as yet addressed his girl in such words as Felix had in truth used when they parted. “You know who it is,” he whispered, “likes you better than any one else in the world.”
“Nobody does; — don’t, Sir Felix.”
“I do,” he said as he held her hand for a minute. He looked into her face and she thought it very sweet. He had studied the words as a lesson, and, repeating them as a lesson, he did it fairly well. He did it well enough at any rate to send the poor girl to bed with a sweet conviction that at last a man had spoken to her whom she could love.
Chapter V
After the Ball
“It’s weary work,” said Sir Felix as he got into the brougham with his mother and sister.
“What must it have been to me then, who had nothing to do?” said his mother.
“It’s the having something to do that makes me call it weary work. By-the-bye, now I think of it, I’ll run down to the club before I go home.” So saying he put his head out of the brougham, and stopped the driver.
“It is two o’clock, Felix,” said his mother.
“I’m afraid it is, but you see I’m hungry. You had supper, perhaps; I had none.”
“Are you going down to the club for supper at this time in the morning?”
“I must go to bed hungry if I don’t. Good night.” Then he jumped out of the brougham, called a cab, and had himself driven to the Beargarden. He declared to himself that the men there would think it mean of him if he did not give them their revenge. He had renewed his play on the preceding night, and had again won. Dolly Longestaffe owed him now a considerable sum of money, and Lord Grasslough was also in his debt. He was sure that Grasslough would go to the club after the ball, and he was determined that they should not think that he had submitted to be carried home by his mother and sister. So he argued with himself; but in truth the devil of gambling was hot within his bosom; and though he feared that in losing he might lose real money, and that if he won it would be long before he was paid, yet he could not keep himself from the card-table.
Neither mother or daughter said a word till they reached home and had got upstairs. Then the elder spoke of the trouble that was nearest to her heart at the moment. “Do you think he gambles?”
“He has got no money, mamma.”
“I fear that might not hinder him. And he has money with him, though, for him and such friends as he has, it is not much. If he gambles everything is lost.”
“I suppose they all do play more or less.”
“I have not known that he played. I am wearied too, out of all heart, by his want of consideration to me. It is not that he will not obey me. A mother perhaps should not expect obedience from a grownup son. But my word is nothing to him. He has no respect for me. He would as soon do what is wrong before me as before the merest stranger.”
“He has been so long his own master, mamma.”
“Yes, — his own master! And yet I must provide for him as though he were but a child. Hetta, you spent the whole evening talking to Paul Montague.”
“No, mamma that is unjust.”
“He was always with you.”
“I knew nobody else. I could not tell him not to speak to me. I danced with him twice.” Her mother was seated, with both her hands up to her forehead, and shook her head. “If you did not want me to speak to Paul you should not have taken me there.”
“I don’t wish to prevent your speaking to him. You know what I want.” Henrietta came up and kissed
