When the little conversation took place between Lady Monogram and Miss Longestaffe, as recorded in the last chapter, Mr Melmotte was in all his glory, and tickets for the entertainment were very precious. Gradually their value subsided. Lady Monogram had paid very dear for hers — especially as the reception of Mr Brehgert must be considered. But high prices were then being paid. A lady offered to take Marie Melmotte into the country with her for a week; but this was before the elopement. Mr Cohenlupe was asked out to dinner to meet two peers and a countess. Lord Alfred received various presents. A young lady gave a lock of her hair to Lord Nidderdale, although it was known that he was to marry Marie Melmotte. And Miles Grendall got back an I.O.U. of considerable nominal value from Lord Grasslough, who was anxious to accommodate two country cousins who were in London. Gradually the prices fell; — not at first from any doubt in Melmotte, but through that customary reaction which may be expected on such occasions. But at eight or nine o’clock on the evening of the party the tickets were worth nothing. The rumour had then spread itself through the whole town from Pimlico to Marylebone. Men coming home from clubs had told their wives. Ladies who had been in the park had heard it. Even the hairdressers had it, and ladies’ maids had been instructed by the footmen and grooms who had been holding horses and seated on the coach-boxes. It had got into the air, and had floated round dining-rooms and over toilet-tables.

I doubt whether Sir Damask would have said a word about it to his wife as he was dressing for dinner, had he calculated what might be the result to himself. But he came home open-mouthed, and made no calculation. ‘Have you heard what’s up, Ju?’ he said, rushing half-dressed into his wife’s room.

‘What is up?’

‘Haven’t you been out?’

‘I was shopping, and that kind of thing. I don’t want to take that girl into the Park. I’ve made a mistake in having her here, but I mean to be seen with her as little as I can.’

‘Be good-natured, Ju, whatever you are.’

‘Oh, bother! I know what I’m about. What is it you mean?’

‘They say Melmotte’s been found out.’

‘Found out!’ exclaimed Lady Monogram, stopping her maid in some arrangement which would not need to be continued in the event of her not going to the reception. ‘What do you mean by found out?’

‘I don’t know exactly. There are a dozen stories told. It’s something about that place he bought of old Longestaffe.’

‘Are the Longestaffes mixed up in it? I won’t have her here a day longer if there is anything against them.’

‘Don’t be an ass, Ju. There’s nothing against him except that the poor old fellow hasn’t got a shilling of his money.’

‘Then he’s ruined — and there’s an end of them.’

‘Perhaps he will get it now. Some say that Melmotte has forged a receipt, others a letter. Some declare that he has manufactured a whole set of title-deeds. You remember Dolly?’

‘Of course I know Dolly Longestaffe,’ said Lady Monogram, who had thought at one time that an alliance with Dolly might be convenient.

‘They say he has found it all out. There was always something about Dolly more than fellows gave him credit for. At any rate, everybody says that Melmotte will be in quod before long.’

‘Not to-night, Damask!’

‘Nobody seems to know. Lupton was saying that the policemen would wait about in the room like servants till the Emperor and the Princes had gone away.’

‘Is Mr Lupton going?’

‘He was to have been at the dinner, but hadn’t made up his mind whether he’d go or not when I saw him. Nobody seems to be quite certain whether the Emperor will go. Somebody said that a Cabinet Council was to be called to know what to do.’

‘A Cabinet Council!’

‘Why, you see it’s rather an awkward thing, letting the Prince go to dine with a man who perhaps may have been arrested and taken to gaol before dinnertime. That’s the worst part of it. Nobody knows.’

Lady Monogram waved her attendant away. She piqued herself upon having a French maid who could not speak a word of English, and was therefore quite careless what she said in the woman’s presence. But, of course, everything she did say was repeated downstairs in some language that had become intelligible to the servants generally. Lady Monogram sat motionless for some time, while her husband, retreating to his own domain, finished his operations. ‘Damask,’ she said, when he reappeared, ‘one thing is certain; — we can’t go.’

‘After you’ve made such a fuss about it!’

‘It is a pity — having that girl here in the house. You know, don’t you, she’s going to marry one of these people?’

‘I heard about her marriage yesterday. But Brehgert isn’t one of Melmotte’s set. They tell me that Brehgert isn’t a bad fellow. A vulgar cad, and all that, but nothing wrong about him.’

‘He’s a Jew, and he’s seventy years old, and makes up horribly.’

‘What does it matter to you if he’s eighty? You are determined, then, you won’t go?’

But Lady Monogram had by no means determined that she wouldn’t go. She had paid her price, and with that economy which sticks to a woman always in the midst of her extravagances, she could not bear to lose the thing that she had bought. She cared nothing for Melmotte’s villainy, as regarded herself. That he was enriching himself by the daily plunder of the innocent she ha............