“Desert her!” said a voice in the distance, half amused, half electrical.  Bury thought it was Jacob’s.

“Of course we sha’n’t desert her!” cried the Duchess.  “We shall rally round her and carry her through.  If Lady Henry makes herself disagreeable, then we’ll fight.  If not, we’ll let her cool down.  Oh, Julie, darling—­here you are!”

The Duchess sprang up and caught her entering friend by the hand.

“And here are we,” with a wave round the circle.  “This is your court—­your St. Germain.”

“So you mean me to die in exile,” said Julie, with a quavering smile, as she drew off her gloves.  Then she looked at her friends.  “Oh, how good of you all to come!  Lord Lackington!” She went up to him impetuously, and he, taken by surprise, yielded his hands, which she took in both hers.  “It was foolish, I know, but you don’t think it was so bad, do you?”

She gazed up at him wistfully.  Her lithe form seemed almost to cling to the old man.  Instinctively, Jacob, Meredith, Sir Wilfrid Bury withdrew their eyes.  The room held its breath.  As for Lord Lackington, he colored like a girl.

“No, no; a mistake, perhaps, for all of us; but more ours than yours, mademoiselle—­much more!  Don’t fret.  Indeed, you look as if you hadn’t slept, and that mustn’t be.  You must think that, sooner or later, it was bound to come.  Lady Henry will soften in time, and you will know so well how to meet her.  But now we have your future to think of.  Only sit down.  You mustn’t look so tired.  Where have you been wandering?”

And with a stately courtesy, her hand still in his, he took her to a chair and helped her to remove her heavy cloak.

“My future!” She shivered as she dropped into her seat.

How weary and beaten-down she looked—­the heroine of such a turmoil!  Her eyes travelled from face to face, shrinking—­unconsciously appealing.  In the dim, soft color of the room, her white face and hands, striking against her black dress, were strangely living and significant.  They spoke command—­through weakness, through sex.  For that, in spite of intellectual distinction, was, after all, her secret.  She breathed femininity—­the old common spell upon the blood.

“I don’t know why you’re all so kind to me,” she murmured.  “Let me disappear.  I can go into the country and earn my living there.  Then I shall be no more trouble.”

Unseen himself, Sir Wilfrid surveyed her.  He thought her a consummate actress, and revelled in each new phase.

The Duchess, half laughing, half crying, began to scold her friend.  Delafield bent over Julie Le Breton’s chair.

“Have you had some tea?”

The smile in his eyes provoked a faint answer in hers.  While she was declaring that she was in no need whatever of physical sustenance, Meredith advanced with his portfolio.  He looked the editor merely, and spoke with a business-like brevity.