t owe a shilling,' said Lady Carbury, 'and he is really a
fine gentleman.'

'But if she doesn't like him?'

'Oh, but she does. She thinks him to be the finest person in the
world. She would obey him a great deal sooner than she would me. But
she has her mind stuffed with nonsense about love.'

'A great many people, Lady Carbury, have their minds stuffed with that
nonsense.'

'Yes;--and ruin themselves with it, as she will do. Love is like any
other luxury. You have no right to it unless you can afford it. And
those who will have it when they can't afford it, will come to the
ground like this Mr Melmotte. How odd it seems! It isn't a fortnight
since we all thought him the greatest man in London.' Mr Broune only
smiled, not thinking it worth his while to declare that he had never
held that opinion about the late idol of Abchurch Lane.

On the following morning, very early, while Melmotte was still lying,
as yet undiscovered, on the floor of Mr Longestaffe's room, a letter
was brought up to Hetta by the maid-servant, who told her that Mr
Montague had delivered it with his own hands. She took it greedily,
and then repressing herself, put it with an assumed gesture of
indifference beneath her pillow. But as soon as the girl had left the
room she at once seized her treasure. It never occurred to her as yet
to think whether she would or would not receive a letter from her
dismissed lover. She had told him that he must go, and go for ever,
and had taken it for granted that he would do so,--probably willingly.
No doubt he would be delighted to return to the American woman. But
now that she had the letter, she allowed no doubt to come between her
and the reading of it. As soon as she was alone she opened it, and she
ran through its contents without allowing herself a moment for
thinking, as she went on, whether the excuses made by her lover were
or were not such as she ought to accept.

DEAREST HETTA,

I think you have been most unjust to me, and if you have ever
loved me I cannot understand your injustice. I have never
deceived you in anything, not by a word, or for a moment. Unless
you mean to throw me over because I did once love another woman,
I do not know what cause of anger you have. I could not tell you
about Mrs Hurtle till you had accepted me, and, as you yourself
must know, I had had no opportunity to tell you anything
afterwards till the story had reached your ears. I hardly know