Lord Uredale explained that he was the husband of the famous young beauty, Mrs. Delaray, whose portrait Lord Lackington had been engaged upon at the time of his seizure.  Having been all his life a skilful artist, a man of fashion, and a harmless haunter of lovely women, Lord Lackington, as the Duchess knew, had all but completed a gallery of a hundred portraits, representing the beauty of the reign.  Mrs. Delaray’s would have been the hundredth in a series of which Mrs. Norton was the first.

“He has been making arrangements with the husband to get it finished,” said Lord Uredale; “it has been on his mind.”

The Duchess shivered a little.

“He knows he won’t finish it?”

“Quite well.”

“And he still thinks of those things?”

“Yes—­or politics,” said Lord Uredale, smiling faintly.  “I have written to Mr. Montresor.  There are two or three points my father wants to discuss with him.”

“And he is not depressed, or troubled about himself?”

“Not in the least.  He will be grateful if you will bring him Miss Le Breton.”

* * * * *

“Julie, my darling, are you fit to come with me?”

The Duchess held her friend in her arms, soothing and caressing her.  How forlorn was the little house, under its dust-sheets, on this rainy, spring morning!  And Julie, amid the dismantled drawing-room, stood spectrally white and still, listening, with scarcely a word in reply, to the affection, or the pity, or the news which the Duchess poured out upon her.

“Shall we go now?  I am quite ready.”

And she withdrew herself from the loving grasp which held her, and put on her hat and gloves.

“You ought to be in bed,” said the Duchess.  “Those night journeys are too abominable.  Even Jacob looks a wreck.  But what an extraordinary chance, Julie, that Jacob should have found you!  How did you come across each other?”

“At the Nord Station,” said Julie, as she pinned her veil before the glass over the mantel-piece.

Some instinct silenced the Duchess.  She asked no more questions, and they started for St. James’s Square.

“You won’t mind if I don’t talk?” said Julie, leaning back and closing her eyes.  “I seem still to have the sea in my ears.”

The Duchess looked at her tenderly, clasping her hand close, and the carriage rolled along.  But just before they reached St. James’s Square, Julie hastily raised the fingers which held her own and kissed them.

“Oh, Julie,” said the Duchess, reproachfully, “I don’t like you to do that!”

She flushed and frowned.  It was she who ought to pay such acts of homage, not Julie.

* * * * *

“Father, Miss Le Breton is here.”

“Let her come in, Jack—­and the Duchess, too.”

Lord Uredale went back to the door.  Two figures came noiselessly into the room, the Duchess in front, with Julie’s hand in hers.