“You’ll marry,” he repeated, with emotion.  “You’ll find some one worthy of you—­some one who will give you the great position for which you were born.”

“I could have it at any moment,” she said, looking him quietly in the eyes.

Warkworth drew back, conscious of a disagreeable shock.  He had been talking in generalities, giving away the future with that fluent prodigality, that easy prophecy which costs so little.  What did she mean?

“Delafield?" he cried.

And he waited for her reply—­which lingered—­in a tense and growing eagerness.  The notion had crossed his mind once or twice during the winter, only to be dismissed as ridiculous.  Then, on the occasion of their first quarrel, when Julie had snubbed him in Delafield’s presence and to Delafield’s advantage, he had been conscious of a momentary alarm.  But Julie, who on that one and only occasion had paraded her intimacy with Delafield, thenceforward said not a word of him, and Warkworth’s jealousy had died for lack of fuel.  In relation to Julie, Delafield had been surely the mere shadow and agent of his little cousin the Duchess—­a friendly, knight-errant sort of person, with a liking for the distressed.  What! the heir-presumptive of Chudleigh Abbey, and one of the most famous of English dukedoms, when even he, the struggling, penurious officer, would never have dreamed of such a match?

Julie, meanwhile, heard only jealousy in his exclamation, and it caressed her ear, her heart.  She was tempted once more, woman-like, to dwell upon the other lover, and again something compelling and delicate in her feeling towards Delafield forbade.

“No, you mustn’t make me tell you any more,” she said, putting the name aside with a proud gesture.  “It would be poor and mean.  But it’s true.  I have only to put out my hand for what you call ‘a great position,’ I have refused to put it out.  Sometimes, of course, it has dazzled me.  To-night it seems to me—­dust and ashes.  No; when we two have said good-bye, I shall begin life again.  And this time I shall live it in my own way, for my own ends.  I’m very tired.  Henceforth ’I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading—­it vexes me to choose another guide.’”

And as she spoke the words of one of the chainless souls of history, in a voice passionately full and rich, she sprang to her feet, and, drawing her slender form to its full height, she locked her hands behind her, and began to pace the room with a wild, free step.

Every nerve in Warkworth’s frame was tingling.  He was carried out of himself, first by the rebellion of her look and manner, then by this fact, so new, so astounding, which her very evasion had confirmed.  During her whole contest with Lady Henry, and now, in her present ambiguous position, she had Delafield, and through Delafield the English great world, in the hollow of her hand?  This nameless woman—­no longer in her first youth.  And she had refused?  He watched her in a speechless wonder and incredulity.