yourself to be implicated in the matter.' Lady
Carbury did as she was advised, and took her daughter with her.
'Nonsense,' said the mother, when Hetta objected; 'Mr Broune sees it
quite in the right light. This is a grand demonstration in honour of
the Emperor, rather than a private party;--and we have done nothing
to offend the Melmottes. You know you wish to see the Emperor.' A few
minutes before they started from Welbeck Street a note came from Mr
Broune, written in pencil and sent from Melmotte's house by a
Commissioner. 'Don't mind what you hear; but come. I am here and as
far as I can see it is all right. The E. is beautiful, and P.'s are as
thick as blackberries.' Lady Carbury, who had not been in the way of
hearing the reports, understood nothing of this; but of course she
went. And Hetta went with her.

Hetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who was
talking to Mr Booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillity of
the Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte timidly crept up to her
and asked her how she was. Hetta, probably, was not very cordial to
the poor girl, being afraid of her, partly as the daughter of the
great Melmotte and partly as the girl with whom her brother had failed
to run away; but Marie was not rebuked by this. 'I hope you won't be
angry with me for speaking to you.' Hetta smiled more graciously. She
could not be angry with the girl for speaking to her, feeling that she
was there as the guest of the girl's mother. 'I suppose you know about
your brother,' said Marie, whispering with her eyes turned to the
ground.

'I have heard about it,' said Hetta. 'He never told me himself.'

'Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth. I know nothing. Of course,
Miss Carbury, I love him. I do love him so dearly! I hope you don't
think I would have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybody
in the world. Don't you think that if a girl loves a man,--really
loves him,--that ought to go before everything?'

This was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to answer. She felt
quite certain that under no circumstances would she run away with a
man. 'I don't quite know. It is so hard to say,' she replied.

'I do. What's the good of anything if you're to be broken-hearted? I
don't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he would
only be true to me. Why doesn't he--let me know--something about it?'
This also was a question difficult to be answered. Since that horrid