on that her brother did not
in the least 'care for' Marie Melmotte, and that it would be very much
for the best that Marie Melmotte should know the truth. But she had
not that sort of strength which would have enabled her to tell it.
'Tell me just what you think,' said Marie. Hetta was still silent.
'Ah,--I see. Then I must give him up? Eh?'

'What can I say, Miss Melmotte? Felix never tells me. He is my
brother,--and of course I love you for loving him.' This was almost
more than Hetta meant; but she felt herself constrained to say some
gracious word.

'Do you? Oh! I wish you did. I should so like to be loved by you.
Nobody loves me, I think. That man there wants to marry me. Do you
know him? He is Lord Nidderdale. He is very nice; but he does not love
me any more than he loves you. That's the way with men. It isn't the
way with me. I would go with Felix and slave for him if he were poor.
Is it all to be over then? You will give him a message from me?'
Hetta, doubting as to the propriety of the promise, promised that she
would. 'Just tell him I want to know; that's all. I want to know.
You'll understand. I want to know the real truth. I suppose I do know
it now. Then I shall not care what happens to me. It will be all the
same. I suppose I shall marry that young man, though it will be very
bad. I shall just be as if I hadn't any self of my own at all. But he
ought to send me word after all that has passed. Do not you think he
ought to send me word?'

'Yes, indeed.'

'You tell him, then,' said Marie, nodding her head as she crept away.

Nidderdale had been observing her while she had been talking to Miss
Carbury. He had heard the rumour, and of course felt that it behoved
him to be on his guard more specially than any one else. But he had
not believed what he had heard. That men should be thoroughly immoral,
that they should gamble, get drunk, run into debt, and make love to
other men's wives, was to him a matter of everyday life. Nothing of
that kind shocked him at all. But he was not as yet quite old enough
to believe in swindling. It had been impossible to convince him that
Miles Grendall had cheated at cards, and the idea that Mr Melmotte had
forged was as improbable and shocking to him as that an officer should
run away in battle. Common soldiers, he thought, might do that sort of
thing. He had almost fallen in love with Marie when he saw her last,
and was inclined to feel the more kindly to her now because o