“On the contrary, I have been holding her back.  But it seems she wants to earn a good deal of money.”

“That’s so absurd,” cried the Duchess, “when there are people only pining to give her some of theirs.”

“No, no,” said the journalist, brusquely.  “She is quite right there.  Oh, it would be all right if she were herself.  She would make short work of Lady Henry.  But, Mademoiselle Julie”—­for she glided past them, and he raised his voice—­“sit down and rest yourself.  Don’t take so much trouble.”

She flung them a smile.

“Lord Lackington is going,” and she hurried on.

Lord Lackington was standing in a group which contained Sir Wilfrid Bury and Mr. Montresor.

“Well, good-bye, good-bye,” he said, as she came up to him.  “I must go.  I’m nearly asleep.”

“Tired with abusing me?” said Montresor, nonchalantly, turning round upon him.

“No, only with trying to make head or tail of you,” said Lackington, gayly.  Then he stooped over Julie.

“Take care of yourself.  Come back rosier—­and fatter.”

“I’m perfectly well.  Let me come with you.”

“No, don’t trouble yourself.”  For she had followed him into the hall and found his coat for him.  All the arrangements for her little “evening” had been of the simplest.  That had been a point of pride with her.  Madame Bornier and Therese dispensing tea and coffee in the dining-room, one hired parlor-maid, and she herself active and busy everywhere.  Certain French models were in her head, and memories of her mother’s bare little salon in Bruges, with its good talk, and its thinnest of thin refreshments—­a few cups of weak tea, or glasses of eau sucree, with a plate of patisserie.

The hired parlor-maid was whistling for a cab in the service of some other departing guest; so Julie herself put Lord Lackington into his coat, much to his discomfort.

“I don’t think you ought to have come,” she said to him, with soft reproach.  “Why did you have that fainting fit before dinner?”

“I say!  Who’s been telling tales?”

“Sir Wilfrid Bury met your son, Mr. Chantrey, at dinner.”

“Bill can never hold his tongue.  Oh, it was nothing; not with the proper treatment, mind you.  Of course, if the allopaths were to get their knives into me—­but, thank God!  I’m out of that galere.  Well, in a fortnight, isn’t it?  We shall both be in town again.  I don’t like saying good-bye.”

And he took both her hands in his.

“It all seems so strange to me still—­so strange!” he murmured.

“Next week I shall see mamma’s grave,” said Julie, under her breath.  “Shall I put some flowers there for you?”

The fine blue eyes above her wavered.  He bent to her.

“Yes.  And write to me.  Come back soon.  Oh, you’ll see.  Things will all come right, perfectly right, in spite of Lady Henry.”