Hetta was standing alone in a corner, near to her mother, who was talking to Mr Booker, with her eyes fixed on the awful tranquillity of the Emperor's countenance, when Marie Melmotte timidly crept up to her and asked her how she was. Hetta, probably, was not very cordial to the poor girl, being afraid of her, partly as the daughter of the great Melmotte and partly as the girl with whom her brother had failed to run away; but Marie was not rebuked by this. 'I hope you won't be angry with me for speaking to you.' Hetta smiled more graciously. She could not be angry with the girl for speaking to her, feeling that she was there as the guest of the girl's mother. 'I suppose you know about your brother,' said Marie, whispering with her eyes turned to the ground.
'I have heard about it,' said Hetta. 'He never told me himself.'
'Oh, I do so wish that I knew the truth. I know nothing. Of course, Miss Carbury, I love him. I do love him so dearly! I hope you don't think I would have done it if I hadn't loved him better than anybody in the world. Don't you think that if a girl loves a man,--really loves him,--that ought to go before everything?'
This was a question that Hetta was hardly prepared to answer. She felt quite certain that under no circumstances would she run away with a man. 'I don't quite know. It is so hard to say,' she replied.
'I do. What's the good of anything if you're to be broken-hearted? I don't care what they say of me, or what they do to me, if he would only be true to me. Why doesn't he--let me know--something about it?' This also was a question difficult to be answered. Since that horrid morning on which Sir Felix had stumbled home drunk,--which was now four days since,--he had not left the house in Welbeck Street till this evening. He had gone out a few minutes before Lady Carbury had started, but up to that time he had almost kept his bed. He would not get up till dinner-time, would come down after some half-dressed fashion, and then get back to his bedroom, where he would smoke and drink brandy-and-water and complain of headache. The theory was that he was ill;--but he was in fact utterly cowed and did not dare to show himself at his usual haunts. He was aware that he had quarrelled at the club, aware that all the world knew of his intended journey to Liverpool, aware that he had tumbled about the streets intoxicated. He had not dared to show himself, and the feeling had grown upon him from day to day. Now, fairly worn out by his confinement, he had crept out intending, if possible, to find consolation with Ruby Ruggles. 'Do tell me. Where is he?' pleaded Marie.