er people;--but it did not occur to her
that Mr Brehgert had written a single word with an attempt to deceive
her. But the single-minded genuine honesty of the letter was altogether
thrown away upon her. She never said to herself, as she read it, that
she might safely trust herself to this man, though he were a Jew,
though greasy and like a butcher, though over fifty and with a family,
because he was an honest man. She did not see that the letter was
particularly sensible;--but she did allow herself to be pained by the
total absence of romance. She was annoyed at the first allusion to her
age, and angry at the second; and yet she had never supposed that
Brehgert had taken her to be younger than she was. She was well aware
that the world in general attributes more years to unmarried women
than they have lived, as a sort of equalising counter-weight against
the pretences which young women make on the other side, or the lies
which are told on their behalf. Nor had she wished to appear
peculiarly young in his eyes. But, nevertheless, she regarded the
reference to be uncivil,--perhaps almost butcher-like,--and it had its
effect upon her. And then the allusion to the 'daughter or daughters'
troubled her. She told herself that it was vulgar,--just what a butcher
might have said. And although she was quite prepared to call her
father the most irrational, the most prejudiced, and most ill-natured
of men, yet she was displeased that Mr Brehgert should take such a
liberty with him. But the passage in Mr Brehgert's letter which was
most distasteful to her was that which told her of the loss which he
might probably incur through his connection with Melmotte. What right
had he to incur a loss which would incapacitate him from keeping his
engagements with her? The town-house had been the great persuasion,
and now he absolutely had the face to tell her that there was to be no
town-house for three years. When she read this she felt that she ought
to be indignant, and for a few moments was minded to sit down without
further consideration and tell the man with considerable scorn that
she would have nothing more to say to him.

But on that side too there would be terrible bitterness. How would she
have fallen from her greatness when, barely forgiven by her father and
mother for the vile sin which she had contemplated, she should consent
to fill a common bridesmaid place at the nuptials of George
Whitstable! And what would then be left to h