Meanwhile, Julie Le Breton, after a first moment of reserve and depression, had been beguiled, carried away. She yielded to her own instincts, her own gifts, till Montresor, drawn on and drawn out, found himself floating on a stream of talk, which Julie led first into one channel and then into another, as she pleased; and all to the flattery and glorification of the talker. The famous Minister had come to visit Lady Henry, as he had done for many Sundays in many years; but it was not Lady Henry, but her companion, to whom his homage of the afternoon was paid, who gave him his moment of enjoyment—the moment that would bring him there again. Lady Henry’s fault, no doubt; but Wilfrid Bury, uneasily aware every now and then of the dumb tumult that was raging in the breast of the haughty being beside him, felt the pathos of this slow discrowning, and was inclined, once more, rather to be sorry for the older woman than to admire the younger.
At last Lady Henry could bear it no longer.
“Mademoiselle, be so good as to return his father’s letters to Captain Warkworth,” she said, abruptly, in her coldest voice, just as Montresor, dropping his—head thrown back and knees crossed—was about to pour into the ears of his companion the whole confidential history of his appointment to office three years before.
Julie Le Breton rose at once. She went towards a table at the farther end of the large room, and Captain Warkworth followed her. Montresor, perhaps repenting himself a little, returned to Lady Henry; and though she received him with great coolness, the circle round her, now augmented by Dr. Meredith, and another politician or two, was reconstituted; and presently, with a conscious effort, visible at least to Bury, she exerted herself to hold it, and succeeded.
Suddenly—just as Bury had finished a very neat analysis of the Shah’s public and private character, and while the applauding laughter of the group of intimates amid which he sat told him that his epigrams had been good—he happened to raise his eyes towards the distant settee where Julie Le Breton was sitting.
His smile stiffened on his lips. Like an icy wave, a swift and tragic impression swept through him. He turned away, ashamed of having seen, and hid himself, as it were, with relief, in the clamor of amusement awakened by his own remarks.
What had he seen? Merely, or mainly, a woman’s face. Young Warkworth stood beside the sofa, on which sat Lady Henry’s companion, his hands in his pockets, his handsome head bent towards her. They had been talking earnestly, wholly forgetting and apparently forgotten by the rest of the room. On his side there was an air of embarrassment. He seemed to be choosing his words with difficulty, his eyes on the floor. Julie Le Breton, on the contrary, was looking at him—looking with all her soul, her ardent, unhappy soul—unconscious of aught else in the wide world.
“Good God! she is in love with him!” was the thought that rushed through Sir Wilfrid’s mind. “Poor thing! Poor thing!”
Sir Wilfrid outstayed his fellow-guests. By seven o’clock all were gone. Mademoiselle Le Breton had retired. He and Lady Henry were left alone.
“Shut the doors!” she said, peremptorily, looking round her as the last guest disappeared. “I must have some private talk with you. Well, I understand you walked home from the Crowboroughs’ the other night with—that woman.”
She turned sharply upon him. The accent was indescribable. And with a fierce hand she arranged the folds of her own thick silk dress, as though, for some relief to the stormy feeling within, she would rather have torn than smoothed it.
Sir Wilfrid seated himself beside her, knees crossed, fingertips lightly touching, the fair eyelashes somewhat lowered—Calm beside Tempest.
“I am sorry to hear you speak so,” he said, gravely, after a pause. “Yes, I talked with her. She met me very fairly, on the whole. It seemed to me she was quite conscious that her behavior had not been always what it should be, and that she was sincerely anxious to change it. I did my best as a peacemaker. Has she made no signs since—no advances?”
Lady Henry threw out her hand in disdain.
“She confessed to me that she had pledged a great deal of the time for which I pay her to Evelyn Crowborough’s bazaar, and asked what she was to do. I told her, of course, that I would put up with nothing of the kind.”
“And were more annoyed, alack! than propitiated by her confession?” said Sir Wilfrid, with a shrug.
“I dare say,” said Lady Henry. “You see, I guessed that it was not spontaneous; that you had wrung it out of her.”
“What else did you expect me to do?” cried Sir Wilfrid. “I seem, indeed, to have jolly well wasted my time.”
“Oh no. You were very kind. And I dare say you might have done some good. I was beginning to—to have some returns on myself, when the Duchess appeared on the scene.”
“Oh, the little fool!” ejaculated Sir Wilfrid, under his breath.
“She came, of course, to beg and protest. She offered me her valuable services for all sorts of superfluous things that I didn’t want—if only I would spare her Julie for this ridiculous bazaar. So then my back was put up again, and I told her a few home truths about the way in which she had made mischief and forced Julie into a totally false position. On which she flew into a passion, and said a lot of silly nonsense about Julie, that showed me, among other things, that Mademoiselle Le Breton had broken her solemn compact with me, and had told
