When Becky beheld that familiar and illustrious face, how vulgar all of

a sudden did Major Loder appear to her, and how that odious Captain

Rook did smell of tobacco! In one instant she reassumed her

fine-ladyship and tried to look and feel as if she were in May Fair

once more. "That woman looks stupid and ill-humoured," she thought; "I

am sure she can't amuse him. No, he must be bored by her--he never was

by me." A hundred such touching hopes, fears, and memories palpitated

in her little heart, as she looked with her brightest eyes (the rouge

which she wore up to her eyelids made them twinkle) towards the great

nobleman. Of a Star and Garter night Lord Steyne used also to put on

his grandest manner and to look and speak like a great prince, as he

was. Becky admired him smiling sumptuously, easy, lofty, and stately.

Ah, bon Dieu, what a pleasant companion he was, what a brilliant wit,

what a rich fund of talk, what a grand manner!--and she had exchanged

this for Major Loder, reeking of cigars and brandy-and-water, and

Captain Rook with his horsejockey jokes and prize-ring slang, and their

like. "I wonder whether he will know me," she thought. Lord Steyne

was talking and laughing with a great and illustrious lady at his side,

when he looked up and saw Becky.

She was all over in a flutter as their eyes met, and she put on the

very best smile she could muster, and dropped him a little, timid,

imploring curtsey. He stared aghast at her for a minute, as Macbeth

might on beholding Banquo's sudden appearance at his ball-supper, and

remained looking at her with open mouth, when that horrid Major Loder

pulled her away.

"Come away into the supper-room, Mrs. R.," was that gentleman's remark:

"seeing these nobs grubbing away has made me peckish too. Let's go and

try the old governor's champagne." Becky thought the Major had had a

great deal too much already.

The day after she went to walk on the Pincian Hill--the Hyde Park of

the Roman idlers--possibly in hopes to have another sight of Lord

Steyne. But she met another acquaintance there: it was Mr. Fiche, his

lordship's confidential man, who came up nodding to her rather

familiarly and putting a finger to his hat. "I knew that Madame was

here," he said; "I followed her from her hotel. I have some advice to

give Madame."

"From the Marquis of Steyne?" Becky asked, resuming as much of her

dignity as she could muster, and not a little agitated by hope and

expectation.

"No," said the valet; "it is from me. Rome is very unwholesome."

"Not at this season, Monsieur Fiche--not till after Easter."

"I tell Madame it is unwholesome now. There is always malaria for some

people. That cursed marsh wind kills many at all seasons. Look, Madame

Crawley, you were always bon enfant, and I have an interest in you,

parole d'honneur. Be warned. Go away from Rome, I tell you--or you

will be ill and die."




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