After a pause he made a little gesture of farewell which the Duchess understood.  She kissed his hand and turned away weeping.

“Nurse—­where is nurse?” said Lord Lackington.

Both the nurse and the doctor, who had withdrawn a little distance from the family group, came forward.

“Doctor, give me some strength,” said the laboring voice, not without its old wilfulness of accent.

He moved his arm towards the young homoeopath, who injected strychnine.  Then he looked at the nurse.

“Brandy—­and—­lift me.”

All was done as he desired.

“Now go, please,” he said to his sons.  “I wish to be left with Julie.”

* * * * *

For some moments, that seemed interminable to Julie, Lord Lackington lay silent.  A feverish flush, a revival of life in the black eyes had followed on the administration of the two stimulants.  He seemed to be gathering all his forces.

At last he laid his hand on her arm.  “You shouldn’t be alone,” he said, abruptly.

His expression had grown anxious, even imperious.  She felt a vague pang of dread as she tried to assure him that she had kind friends, and that her work would be her resource.

Lord Lackington frowned.

“That won’t do,” he said, almost vehemently.  “You have great talents, but you are weak—­you are a woman—­you must marry.”

Julie stared at him, whiter even than when she had entered his room—­helpless to avert what she began to foresee.

“Jacob Delafield is devoted to you.  You should marry him, dear—­you should marry him.”

The room seemed to swim around her.  But his face was still plain—­the purpled lips and cheeks, the urgency in the eyes, as of one pursued by an overtaking force, the magnificent brow, the crown of white hair.

She summoned all her powers and told him hurriedly that he was mistaken—­entirely mistaken.  Mr. Delafield had, indeed, proposed to her, but, apart from her own unwillingness, she had reason to know that his feelings towards her were now entirely changed.  He neither loved her nor thought well of her.

Lord Lackington lay there, obstinate, patient, incredulous.  At last he interrupted her.

“You make yourself believe these things.  But they are not true.  Delafield is attached to you.  I know it.”

He nodded to her with his masterful, affectionate look.  And before she could find words again he had resumed.

“He could give you a great position.  Don’t despise it.  We English big-wigs have a good time.”

A ghostly, humorous ray shot out upon her; then he felt for her hand.

“Dear Julie, why won’t you?”

“If you were to ask him,” she cried, in despair, “he would tell you as I do.”

And across her miserable thoughts there flashed two mingled images—­Warkworth waiting, waiting for her at the Sceaux Station, and that look of agonized reproach in Delafield’s haggard face as he had parted from her in the dawn of this strange, this incredible day.