“Oh, go on—go on!” said the Duke, throwing himself exasperated into an armchair; “the ease with which you dispose of my property on behalf of a young woman who has caused me most acute annoyance, who has embroiled us with a near relation for whom I have a very particular respect! Her friends, indeed! Lady Henry’s friends, you mean. Poor Lady Henry tells me in this letter that her circle will be completely scattered. This mischievous woman in three years has destroyed what it has taken Lady Henry nearly thirty to build up. Now look here, Evelyn”—the Duke sat up and slapped his knee—“as to this Cureton Street plan, I will do nothing of the kind. You may have Miss Le Breton here for two or three nights if you like—I shall probably go down to the country—and, of course, I have no objection to make if you wish to help her find another situation—”
“Another situation!” cried the Duchess, beside herself. “Freddie, you really are impossible! Do you understand that I regard Julie Le Breton as my relation, whatever you may say—that I love her dearly—that there are fifty people with money and influence ready to help her if you won’t, because she is one of the most charming and distinguished women in London—that you ought to be proud to do her a service—that I want you to have the honor of it—there! And if you won’t do this little favor for me—when I ask and beg it of you—I’ll make you remember it for a very long time to come—you may be sure of that!”
And his wife turned upon him as an image of war, her fair hair ruffling about her ears, her cheeks and eyes brilliant with anger—and something more.
The Duke rose in silent ferocity and sought for some letters which he had left on the mantelpiece.
“I had better leave you to come to your senses by yourself, and as quickly as possible,” he said, as he put them into his pockets. “No good can come of any more discussion of this sort.”
The Duchess said nothing. She looked out of the window busily, and bit her lip. Her silence served her better than her speech, for suddenly the Duke looked round, hesitated, threw down a book he carried, walked up to her, and took her in his arms.
“You are a very foolish child,” he declared, as he held her by main force and kissed away her tears. “You make me lose my temper—and waste my time—for nothing.”
“Not at all,” said the sobbing Duchess, trying to push herself away, and denying him, as best she could, her soft, flushed face. “You don’t, or you won’t, understand! I was—I was very fond of Uncle George Chantrey. He would have helped Julie if he were alive. And as for you, you’re Lord Lackington’s godson, and you’re always preaching what he’s done for the army, and what the nation owes him—and—and—”
“Does he know?” said the Duke, abruptly, marvelling at the irrelevance of these remarks.
“No, not a word. Only six people in London know—Aunt Flora, Sir Wilfrid Bury”—the Duke made an exclamation—“Mr. Montresor, Jacob, you, and I.”
“Jacob!” said the Duke. “What’s he got to do with it?”
The Duchess suddenly saw her opportunity, and rushed upon it.
“Only that he’s madly in love with her, that’s all. And, to my knowledge, she has refused him both last year and this. Of course, naturally, if you won’t do anything to help her, she’ll probably marry him—simply as a way out.”
“Well, of all the extraordinary affairs!”
The Duke released her, and stood bewildered. The Duchess watched him in some excitement. He was about to speak, when there was a sound in the anteroom. They moved hastily apart. The door was thrown open, and the footman announced, “Miss Le Breton.”
Julie Le Breton entered, and stood a moment on the threshold, looking, not in embarrassment, but with a certain hesitation, at the two persons whose conversation she had disturbed. She was pale with sleeplessness; her look was sad and weary. But never had she been more composed, more elegant. Her closely fitting black cloth dress; her strangely expressive face, framed by a large hat, very simple, but worn as only the woman of fashion knows how; her miraculous yet most graceful slenderness; the delicacy of her hands; the natural dignity of her movements—these things produced an immediate, though, no doubt, conflicting impression upon the gentleman who had just been denouncing her. He bowed, with an involuntary deference which he had not at all meant to show to Lady Henry’s insubordinate companion, and then stood frowning.
But the Duchess ran forward, and, quite heedless of her husband, threw herself into her friend’s arms.
“Oh, Julie, is there anything left of you? I hardly slept a wink for thinking of you. What did that old—oh, I forgot—do you know my husband? Freddie, this is my great friend, Miss Le Breton.”
The Duke bowed again, silently. Julie looked at him, and then, still holding the Duchess by the hand, she approached him, a pair of very fine and pleading eyes fixed upon his face.
“You have probably heard from Lady Henry, have you not?” she said, addressing him. “In a note I had from her this morning she told me she had written to you. I could not help coming today, because Evelyn has been so kind. But—is it your wish that I should come here?”
The Christian name slipped out unawares, and the Duke winced at
