She smiled, and then again, as she turned over her silks, he heard her sigh—­a long breath of weariness.  It was strange and terrible in his ear—­the contrast between this unconscious sound, drawn as it were from the oppressed heart of pain, and her languidly, smiling words.

“Has he spoken to you of the Moffatts?” he asked her, presently, not looking at her.

A sharp crimson color rushed over her face.

“Not much.  He and Lady Blanche are not great friends.  And I have made him promise to keep my secret from her till I give him leave to tell it.”

“It will have to be known to her some time, will it not?”

“Perhaps,” she said, impatiently.  “Perhaps, when I can make up my mind.”

Then she pushed aside her frame and would talk no more about Lord Lackington.  She gave him, somehow, the impression of a person suffocating, struggling for breath and air.  And yet her hand was icy, and she presently went to the fire, complaining of the east wind; and as he put on the coal he saw her shiver.

“Shall I force her to tell me everything?” he thought to himself.

Did she divine the obscure struggle in his mind?  At any rate she seemed anxious to cut short their tete-a-tete.  She asked him to come and look at some engravings which the Duchess had sent round for the embellishment of the dining-room.  Then she summoned Madame Bornier, and asked him a number of questions on Leonie’s behalf, with reference to some little investment of the ex-governess’s savings, which had been dropping in value.  Meanwhile, as she kept him talking, she leaned herself against the lintel of the door, forgetting every now and then that any one else was there, and letting the true self appear, like some drowned thing floating into sight.  Delafield disposed of Madame Bornier’s affairs, hardly knowing what he said, but showing in truth his usual conscience and kindness.  Then when Leonie was contented, Julie saw the little cripple crossing the hall, and called to her.

“Ah, ma cherie!  How is the poor little foot?”

And turning to Delafield, she explained volubly that Therese had given herself a slight twist on the stairs that morning, pressing the child to her side the while with a tender gesture.  The child nestled against her.

“Shall maman keep back supper?” Therese half whispered, looking at Delafield.

“No, no, I must go!” cried Delafield, rousing himself and looking for his hat.

“I would ask you to stay,” said Julie, smiling, “just to show off Leonie’s cooking; but there wouldn’t be enough for a great big man.  And you’re probably dining with dukes.”