. 'Mamma, where are you
going?' said Marie, also rising. Madame Melmotte, putting her
handkerchief up to her face, declared that she was being absolutely
destroyed by a toothache. 'I must see if I can't do something for
her,' said Marie, hurrying to the door. But Lord Nidderdale was too
quick for her, and stood with his back to it. 'That's a shame,' said
Marie.

'Your mother has gone on purpose that I may speak to you,' said his
lordship. 'Why should you grudge me the opportunity?'

Marie returned to her chair and again seated herself. She also had
thought much of her own position since her return from Liverpool. Why
had Sir Felix not been there? Why had he not come since her return,
and, at any rate, endeavoured to see her? Why had he made no attempt
to write to her? Had it been her part to do so, she would have found a
hundred ways of getting at him. She absolutely had walked inside the
garden of the square on Sunday morning, and had contrived to leave a
gate open on each side. But he had made no sign. Her father had told
her that he had not gone to Liverpool--and had assured her that he had
never intended to go. Melmotte had been very savage with her about the
money, and had loudly accused Sir Felix of stealing it. The repayment
he never mentioned,--a piece of honesty, indeed, which had showed no
virtue on the part of Sir Felix. But even if he had spent the money,
why was he not man enough to come and say so? Marie could have
forgiven that fault,--could have forgiven even the gambling and the
drunkenness which had caused the failure of the enterprise on his
side, if he had had the courage to come and confess to her. What she
could not forgive was continued indifference,--or the cowardice which
forbade him to show himself. She had more than once almost doubted his
love, though as a lover he had been better than Nidderdale. But now,
as far as she could see, he was ready to consent that the thing should
be considered as over between them. No doubt she could write to him.
She had more than once almost determined to do so. But then she had
reflected that if he really loved her he would come to her. She was
quite ready to run away with a lover, if her lover loved her; but she
would not fling herself at a man's head. Therefore she had done
nothing beyond leaving the garden gates open on the Sunday morning.

But what was she to do with herself? She also felt, she knew not why,
that the present turmoil of her father's life