When the train ran into the station at Liverpool the two women sat for a few moments quite quiet.  They would not seek remark by any hurry or noise.  The door was opened, and a well-mannered porter offered to take their luggage.  Didon handed out the various packages, keeping however the jewel-case in her own hands.  She left the carriage first, and then Marie.  But Marie had hardly put her foot on the platform, before a gentleman addressed her, touching his hat, ’You, I think, are Miss Melmotte.’  Marie was struck dumb, but said nothing.  Didon immediately became voluble in French.  No; the young lady was not Miss Melmotte; the young lady was Mademoiselle Racine, her niece.  She was Madame Racine.  Melmotte!  What was Melmotte?  They knew nothing about Melmottes.  Would the gentleman...