The books she read, poor though they generally were, left something bright on her imagination. She fancied to herself brilliant conversations in which she bore a bright part, though in real life she had hitherto hardly talked to any one since she was a child. Sir Felix Carbury, she knew, had made her an offer. She knew also, or thought that she knew, that she loved the man. And now she was with him alone! Now surely had come the time in which some one of her castles in the air might be found to be built of real materials. "You know why I have come down here?" he said. [Illustration: "You know why I have come down here?"] "To see your cousin." "No, indeed. I'm not particularly fond of my cousin, who is a methodical stiff-necked old bachelor,--as cross as the mischief." "How disagreeable!" "Yes; he is disagreeable. I didn't come down to see him, I can tell you. But when I heard that you were going to be here with the Longestaffes, I determined to come at once. I wonder whether you are glad to see me?" "I don't know," said Marie, who could not at once find that brilliancy of words with which her imagination supplied her readily enough in her solitude. "Do you remember what you said to me that evening at my mother's?" "Did I say anything? I don't remember anything particular." "Do you not? Then I fear you can't think very much of me." He paused as though he supposed that she would drop into his mouth like a cherry. "I thought you told me that you would love me." "Did I?" "Did you not?" "I don't know what I said. Perhaps if I said that, I didn't mean it." "Am I to believe that?" "Perhaps you didn't mean it yourself." "By George, I did. I was quite in earnest. There never was a fellow more in earnest than I was. I've come down here on purpose to say it again." "To say what?" "Whether you'll accept me?" "I don't know whether you love me well enough." She longed to be told by him that he loved her. He had no objection to tell her so, but, without thinking much about it, felt it to be a bore. All that kind of thing was trash and twaddle. He desired her to accept him; and he would have wished, were it possible, that she should have gone to her father for his consent. There was something in the big eyes and heavy jaws of Mr. Melmotte which he almost feared. "Do you really love me well enough?" she whispered. "Of course I do. I'm bad at making pretty speeches, and all that, but you know I love you." "Do you?" "By George, yes. I always liked you from the first moment I saw you. I did indeed." It was a poor declaration of love, but it sufficed. "Then I will love you," she said. "I will with all my heart." "There's a darling!" "Shall I be your darling? Indeed I will. I may call you Felix now;--mayn't I?" "Rather." "Oh, Felix, I hope you will love me. I will so dote upon you. You know a great many men have asked me to love them." "I suppose so." "But I have never, never cared for one of them in the least;--not in the least."