“I have brought the sheets of the new Shelley book, Miss Le Breton.  It is due for publication on the 22d.  Kindly let me have your review within a week.  It may run to two columns—­possibly even two and a half.  You will find here also the particulars of one or two other things—­let me know, please, what you will undertake.”

Julie put out a languid hand for the portfolio.

“I don’t think you ought to trust me.”

“What do you want of her?” said Lord Lackington, briskly. “’Chatter about Harriet?’ I could write you reams of that myself.  I once saw Harriet.”

“Ah!”

Meredith, with whom the Shelley cult was a deep-rooted passion, started and looked round; then sharply repressed the eagerness on his tongue and sat down by Miss Le Breton, with whom, in a lowered voice, he began to discuss the points to be noticed in the sheets handed over to her.  No stronger proof could he have given of his devotion to her.  Julie knew it, and, rousing herself, she met him with a soft attention and docility; thus tacitly relinquishing, as Bury noticed with amusement, all talk of “disappearance.”

Only with himself, he suspected, was the fair lady ill at ease.  And, indeed, it was so.  Julie, by her pallor, her humility, had thrown herself, as it were, into the arms of her friends, and each was now vying with the other as to how best to cheer and console her.  Meanwhile her attention was really bent upon her critic—­her only critic in this assembly; and he discovered various attempts to draw him into conversation.  And when Lord Lackington, discomfited by Meredith, had finished discharging his literary recollections upon him, Sir Wilfrid became complaisant; Julie slipped in and held him.

Leaning her chin on both hands, she bent towards him, fixing him with her eyes.  And in spite of his antagonism he no longer felt himself strong enough to deny that the eyes were beautiful, especially with this tragic note in them of fatigue and pain.

“Sir Wilfrid”—­she spoke in low entreaty—­“you must help me to prevent any breach between Lady Henry and Mr. Montresor.”

He looked at her gayly.

“I fear,” he said, “you are too late.  That point is settled, as I understand from herself.”

“Surely not—­so soon!”

“There was an exchange of letters this morning.”

“Oh, but you can prevent it—­you must!” She clasped her hands.

“No,” he said, slowly, “I fear you must accept it.  Their relation was a matter of old habit.  Like other things old and frail, it bears shock and disturbance badly.”

She sank back in her chair, raising her hands and letting them fall with a gesture of despair.

One little stroke of punishment—­just one!  Surely there was no cruelty in that.  Sir Wilfrid caught the Horatian lines dancing through his head: 

     “Just oblige me and touch
       With your wand that minx Chloe—­
     But don’t hurt her much!”