"What have you got to say?"
"You've made a pretty kettle of fish of it."
"I've been guided by you in everything. Come, now; you ought to own that. I suppose the whole thing is over?"
"I don't see why it should be over. I'm told she has got her own money." Then Nidderdale described to his father Melmotte's behaviour in the House on the preceding evening. "What the devil does that matter?" said the old man. "You're not going to marry the man himself."
"I shouldn't wonder if he's in gaol now."
"And what does that matter? She's not in gaol. And if the money is hers, she can't lose it because he goes to prison. Beggars mustn't be choosers. How do you mean to live if you don't marry this girl?"
"I shall scrape on, I suppose. I must look for somebody else." The Marquis showed very plainly by his demeanour that he did not give his son much credit either for diligence or for ingenuity in making such a search. "At any rate, sir, I can't marry the daughter of a man who is to be put upon his trial for forgery."
"I can't see what that has to do with you."
"I couldn't do it, sir. I'd do anything else to oblige you, but I couldn't do that. And, moreover, I don't believe in the money."
"Then you may just go to the devil," said the old Marquis turning himself round in his chair, and lighting a cigar as he took up the newspaper. Nidderdale went on with his breakfast with perfect equanimity, and when he had finished lighted his cigar. "They tell me," said the old man, "that one of those Goldsheiner girls will have a lot of money."