This notion of things, more or less disguised, was to Julie customary and familiar; and it was no more incompatible in her with the notions and standards of high sentiment, such as she might be supposed to have derived from her parents, than it is in the Latin races generally.

No doubt it had been mingled in her, especially since her settlement in Lady Henry’s house, with the more English idea of “falling in love”—­the idea which puts personal choice first in marriage, and makes the matter of dowry subordinate to that mysterious election and affinity which the Englishman calls “love.”  Certainly, during the winter, Julie had hoped to lead Warkworth to marry her.  As a poor man, of course, he must have money.  But her secret feeling had been that her place in society, her influence with important people, had a money value, and that he would perceive this.

Well, she had been a mere trusting fool, and he had deceived her.  There was his crime—­not in seeking money and trusting to money.  He had told her falsehoods and misled her.  He was doing it still.  His letter implied that he loved her?  Possibly.  It implied to Julie’s ear still more plainly that he stood tacitly and resolutely by Aileen Moffatt and her money, and that all he was prepared to offer to the dear friend of his heart was a more or less ambiguous relation, lasting over two years perhaps—­till his engagement might be announced.

A dumb and bitter anger mounted within her.  She recalled the manner in which he had evaded her first questions, and her opinion became very much that of the Duchess.  She had, indeed, been mocked, and treated like a child.  So she sent no answer to his first letter, and when his second came she forbade herself to open it.  It lay there on her writing-table.  At night she transferred it to the table beside her bed, and early in the spring dawn her groping fingers drew it trembling towards her and slipped it under her pillow.  By the time the full morning had come she had opened it, read and reread it—­had bathed it, indeed, with her tears.

But her anger persisted, and when Warkworth appeared on her threshold it flamed into sudden expression.  She would make him realize her friends, her powerful friends—­above all, she would make him realize Delafield.

Well, now it was done.  She had repelled her lover.  She had shown herself particularly soft and gracious to Delafield.  Warkworth now would break with her—­might, perhaps, be glad of the chance to return safely and without further risks to his heiress.

She sat on in the dark, thinking over every word, every look.  Presently Therese stole in.

“Mademoiselle, le souper sera bientot pret.”

Julie rose wearily, and the child slipped a thin hand into hers.

“J’aime tant ce vieux monsieur,” she said, softly.  “Je l’aime tant!”

Julie started.  Her thoughts had wandered far, indeed, from Lord Lackington.