‘Qu’elle est mechante,’ said Madame Melmotte.  ’Oh, she is so bad.  Sir Felix, you had better go too.  Yes indeed.’

‘No,’ said Marie, running to him, and taking hold of his arm.  ’Why should he go?  I want papa to know.’

‘Il vous tuera,’ said Madame Melmotte.  ‘My God, yes.’

‘Then he shall,’ said Marie, clinging to her lover.  ’I will never marry Lord Nidderdale.  If he were to cut me into bits I wouldn’t do it.  Felix, you love me; do you not?’

‘Certainly,’ said Sir Felix, slipping his arm round her waist.

‘Mamma,’ said Marie, ’I will never have any other man but him;—­never, never, never.  Oh, Felix...