Late in the evening Marie Melmotte was waltzing with Felix Carbury, and Henrietta Carbury was then standing by talking to one Mr. Paul Montague. Lady Carbury was also there. She was not well inclined either to balls or to such people as the Melmottes; nor was Henrietta. But Felix had suggested that, bearing in mind his prospects as to the heiress, they had better accept the invitation which he would cause to have sent to them. They did so; and then Paul Montague also got a card, not altogether to Lady Carbury’s satisfaction. Lady Carbury was very gracious to Madame Melmotte for two minutes, and then slid into a chair expecting nothing but misery for the evening. She, however, was a woman who could do her duty and endure without complaint.
“It is the first great ball I ever was at in London,” said Hetta Carbury to Paul Montague.
“And how do you like it?”
“Not at all. How should I like it? I know nobody here. I don’t understand how it is that at these parties people do know each other, or whether they all go dancing about without knowing.”
“Just that; I suppose when they are used to it they get introduced backwards and forwards, and then they can know each other as fast as they like. If you would wish to dance why won’t you dance with me?”
“I have danced with you—twice already.”
“Is there any law against dancing three times?”
“But I don’t especially want to dance,” said Henrietta. “I think I’ll go and console poor mamma, who has got nobody to speak to her.” Just at this moment, however, Lady Carbury was not in that wretched condition, as an unexpected friend had come to her relief.
Sir Felix and Marie Melmotte had been spinning round and round throughout a long waltz, thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the music and the movement. To give Felix Carbury what little praise might be his due, it is necessary to say that he did not lack physical activity. He would dance, and ride, and shoot eagerly, with an animation that made him happy for the moment. It was an affair not of thought or calculation, but of physical organisation. And Marie Melmotte had been thoroughly happy. She loved dancing with all her heart if she could only dance in a manner pleasant to herself. She had been warned especially as to some men—that she should not dance with them. She had been almost thrown into Lord Nidderdale’s arms, and had been prepared to take him at her father’s bidding. But she had never had the slightest pleasure in his society, and had only not been wretched because she had not as yet recognised that she had an identity of her own in the disposition of which she herself should have a voice. She certainly had never cared to dance with Lord Nidderdale. Lord Grasslough she had absolutely hated, though at first she had hardly dared to say so. One or two others had been obnoxious to her in different ways, but they had passed on, or were passing on, out of her way. There was no one at the present moment whom she had been commanded by her father to accept should an offer be made. But she did like dancing with Sir Felix Carbury.
It was not only that the man was handsome but that he had a power of changing the expression of his countenance, a play of face, which belied altogether his real disposition. He could seem to be hearty and true till the moment came in which he had really to expose his heart—or to try to expose it. Then he failed, knowing nothing about it. But in the approaches to intimacy with a girl he could be very successful. He had already nearly got beyond this with Marie Melmotte; but Marie was by no means quick in discovering his deficiencies. To her he had seemed like a god. If she might be allowed to be wooed by Sir Felix Carbury, and to give herself to him, she thought that she would be contented.
“How well you dance,” said Sir Felix, as soon as he had breath for speaking.
“Do I?” She spoke with a slightly foreign accent, which gave a little prettiness to her speech. “I was never told so. But nobody ever told me anything about myself.”
“I should like to tell you everything about yourself, from the beginning to the end.”
“Ah—but you don’t know.”
“I would find out. I think I could make some good guesses. I’ll tell you what you would like best in all the world.”
“What is that?”
“Somebody that liked you best in all the world.”
“Ah—yes; if one knew who?”
“How can you know, Miss Melmotte, but by believing?”
“That is not the way to know. If a girl told me that she liked me better than any other girl, I should not know it, just because she said so. I should have to find it out.”
“And if a gentleman told you so?”
“I shouldn’t believe him a bit, and I should not care to find out. But I should like to have some girl for a friend whom I could love, oh, ten times better than myself.”
“So should I.”
“Have you no particular friend?”
“I mean a girl
