“Please to walk in, sir,” she said, in her shy, low voice, and Delafield entered.  From the hall he had caught one involuntary glimpse of Julie, standing stiff and straight in the middle of the room, her hands clasped to her breast—­a figure in pain.  When he went in, she was in her usual seat by the fire, with her embroidery frame in front of her.

“May I come in?  It is rather late.”

“Oh, by all means!  Do you bring me any news of Evelyn?  I haven’t seen her for three days.”

He seated himself beside her.  It was hard, indeed, for him to hide all signs of the tumult within.  But he held a firm grip upon himself.

“I saw Evelyn this afternoon.  She complained that you had had no time for her lately.”

Julie bent over her work.  He saw that her fingers were so unsteady that she could hardly make them obey her.

“There has been a great deal to do, even in this little house.  Evelyn forgets; she has an army of servants; we have only our hands and our time.”

She looked up, smiling.  He made no reply, and the smile died from her face, suddenly, as though some one had blown out a light.  She returned to her work, or pretended to.  But her aspect had left him inwardly shaken.  The eyes, disproportionately large and brilliant, were of an emphasis almost ghastly, the usually clear complexion was flecked and cloudy, the mouth dry-lipped.  She looked much older than she had done a fortnight before.  And the fact was the more noticeable because in her dress she had now wholly discarded the touch of stateliness—­almost old-maidishness—­which had once seemed appropriate to the position of Lady Henry’s companion.  She was wearing a little gown of her youth, a blue cotton, which two years before had been put aside as too slight and juvenile.  Never had the form within it seemed so girlish, so appealing.  But the face was heart-rending.

After a pause he moved a little closer to her.

“Do you know that you are looking quite ill?”

“Then my looks are misleading.  I am very well.”

“I am afraid I don’t put much faith in that remark.  When do you mean to take a holiday?”

“Oh, very soon.  Leonie, my little housekeeper, talks of going to Bruges to wind up all her affairs there and bring back some furniture that she has warehoused.  I may go with her.  I, too, have some property stored there.  I should go and see some old friends—­the soeurs, for instance, with whom I went to school.  In the old days I was a torment to them, and they were tyrants to me.  But they are quite nice to me now—­they give me patisserie, and stroke my hands and spoil me.”

And she rattled on about the friends she might revisit, in a hollow, perfunctory way, which set him on edge.

“I don’t see that anything of that kind will do you any good.  You want rest of mind and body.  I expect those last scenes with Lady Henry cost you more than you knew.  There are wounds one does not notice at the time—­”