Confidence, encouragement, a charming raillery, an enthusiastic tenderness—­all these beamed upon her from the old man’s tone and gesture.  She was puzzled.  But with another pressure of the hand he was gone.  She stood looking after him.  And as the carriage drove away, the sound of the wheels hurt her.  It was the withdrawal of something protecting—­something more her own, when all was said, than anything else which remained to her.

As she returned to the drawing-room, Dr. Meredith intercepted her.

“You want me to send you some work to take abroad?” he said, in a low voice.  “I shall do nothing of the kind.”

“Why?”

“Because you ought to have a complete holiday.”

“Very well.  Then I sha’n’t be able to pay my way,” she said, with a tired smile.

“Remember the doctor’s bills if you fall ill.”

“Ill!  I am never ill,” she said, with scorn.  Then she looked round the room deliberately, and her gaze returned to her companion.  “I am not likely to be fatigued with society, am I?” she added, in a voice that did not attempt to disguise the bitterness within.

“My dear lady, you are hardly installed.”

“I have been here a month—­the critical month.  Now was the moment to stand by me, or throw me over—­n’est-ce pas?  This is my first party, my house-warming.  I gave a fortnight’s notice; I asked about sixty people, whom I knew well.  Some did not answer at all.  Of the rest, half declined—­rather curtly, in many instances.  And of those who accepted, not all are here.  And, oh, how it dragged!”

Meredith looked at her rather guiltily, not knowing what to say.  It was true the evening had dragged.  In both their minds there rose the memory of Lady Henry’s “Wednesdays,” the beautiful rooms, the varied and brilliant company, the power and consideration which had attended Lady Henry’s companion.

“I suppose,” said Julie, shrugging her shoulders, “I had been thinking of the French maitresses de salon, like a fool; of Mademoiselle de l’Espinasse—­or Madame Mohl—­imagining that people would come to me for a cup of tea and an agreeable hour.  But in England, it seems, people must be paid to talk.  Talk is a business affair—­you give it for a consideration.”

“No, no!  You’ll build it up,” said Meredith.  In his heart of hearts he said to himself that she had not been herself that night.  Her wonderful social instincts, her memory, her adroitness, had somehow failed her.  And from a hostess strained, conscious, and only artificially gay, the little gathering had taken its note.

“You have the old guard, anyway,” added the journalist, with a smile, as he looked round the room.  The Duchess, Delafield, Montresor and his wife, General McGill, and three or four other old habitues of the Bruton Street evenings were scattered about the little drawing-room.  General Fergus, too, was there—­had arrived early, and was staying late.  His frank soldier’s face, the accent, cheerful, homely, careless, with which he threw off talk full of marrow, talk only possible—­for all its simplicity—­to a man whose life had been already closely mingled with the fortunes of his country, had done something to bind Julie’s poor little party together.  Her eye rested on him with gratitude.  Then she replied to Meredith.