Nidderdale had his doubts. That absurd elopement, which Melmotte
declared really to mean nothing,--the romance of a girl who wanted to
have one little fling of her own before she settled down for life,--
was perhaps his strongest objection. Sir Felix, no doubt, had not gone
with her; but then one doesn't wish to have one's intended wife even
attempt to run off with any one but oneself. 'She'll be sick of him by
this time, I should say,' his father said to him. 'What does it
matter, if the money's there?' The Marquis seemed to think that the
escapade had simply been the girl's revenge against his son for having
made his arrangements so exclusively with Melmotte, instead of
devoting himself to her. Nidderdale acknowledged to himself that he
had been remiss. He told himself that she was possessed of more spirit
than he had thought. By the Sunday evening he had determined that he
would try again. He had expected that the plum would fall into his
mouth. He would now stretch out his hand to pick it.

On the Monday he went to the house in Bruton Street, at lunch time.
Melmotte and the two Grendalls had just come over from their work in
the square, and the financier was full of the priest's visit to him.
Madame Melmotte was there, and Miss Longestaffe, who was to be sent
for by her friend Lady Monogram that afternoon,--and, after they had
sat down, Marie came in. Nidderdale got up and shook hands with her,--
of course as though nothing had happened. Marie, putting a brave face
upon it, struggling hard in the midst of very real difficulties,
succeeded in saying an ordinary word or two. Her position was
uncomfortable. A girl who has run away with her lover and has been
brought back again by her friends, must for a time find it difficult
to appear in society with ease. But when a girl has run away without
her lover,--has run away expecting her lover to go with her, and has
then been brought back, her lover not having stirred, her state of
mind must be peculiarly harassing. But Marie's courage was good, and
she ate her lunch even though she sat next to Lord Nidderdale.

Melmotte was very gracious to the young lord. 'Did you ever hear
anything like that, Nidderdale?' he said, speaking of the priest's
visit.

'Mad as a hatter,' said Lord Alfred.

'I don't know much about his madness. I shouldn't wonder if he had
been sent by the Archbishop of Westminster. Why don't we have an
Archbishop of Westminster when they've got one? I shal