of Father Barham's name.

Opposite to her, or nearly so, sat Sir Felix and his love. 'I have told
mamma,' Marie had whispered, as she walked in to dinner with him. She
was now full of the idea so common to girls who are engaged,--and as
natural as it is common,--that she might tell everything to her lover.

'Did she say anything?' he asked. Then Marie had to take her place and
arrange her dress before she could reply to him. 'As to her, I suppose
it does not matter what she says, does it?'

'She said a great deal. She thinks that papa will think you are not
rich enough. Hush! Talk about something else, or people will hear.' So
much she had been able to say during the bustle.

Felix was not at all anxious to talk about his love, and changed the
subject very willingly. 'Have you been riding?' he asked.

'No; I don't think there are horses here,--not for visitors, that is.
How did you get home? Did you have any adventures?'

'None at all,' said Felix, remembering Ruby Ruggles. 'I just rode home
quietly. I go to town to-morrow.'

'And we go on Wednesday. Mind you come and see us before long.' This
she said bringing her voice down to a whisper.

'Of course I shall. I suppose I'd better go to your father in the
city. Does he go every day?'

'Oh yes, every day. He's back always about seven. Sometimes he's
good-natured enough when he comes back, but sometimes he's very cross.
He's best just after dinner. But it's so hard to get to him then. Lord
Alfred is almost always there; and then other people come, and they
play cards. I think the city will be best.'

'You'll stick to it?' he asked.

'Oh, yes;--indeed I will. Now that I've once said it nothing will ever
turn me. I think papa knows that.' Felix looked at her as she said
this, and thought that he saw more in her countenance than he had ever
read there before. Perhaps she would consent to run away with him;
and, if so, being the only child, she would certainly,--almost certainly,
--be forgiven. But if he were to run away with her and marry her, and
then find that she were not forgiven, and that Melmotte allowed her to
starve without a shilling of fortune, where would he be then? Looking
at the matter in all its bearings, considering among other things the
trouble and the expense of such a measure, he thought that he could
not afford to run away with her.

After dinner he hardly spoke to her; indeed, the room itself,--the same
big room in which they had been ass