and folly and self-judgment; those who have been forced to seek with eagerness for some answer to those questions which the majority of us never ask, “Whither is my life leading me—­and what is it worth to me or to any other living soul?”—­these are the men and women who now and then touch or startle us with the eyes and the voice of Julie, if, at least, we have the capacity that responds.  Sir Wilfrid Bury, for instance, prince of self-governed and reasonable men, was not to be touched by Julie.  For him, in spite of her keen intelligence, she was the type passionne, from which he instinctively recoiled—­the Duke of Crowborough the same.  Such men feel towards such women as Julie Le Breton hostility or satire; for what they ask, above all, of the women of their world is a kind of simplicity, a kind of lightness which makes life easier for men.

But for natures like Evelyn Crowborough—­or Meredith—­or Jacob Delafield—­the Julie-type has perennial attractions.  For these are all children of feeling, allied in this, however different in intelligence or philosophy.  They are attracted by the storm-tossed temperament in itself; by mere sensibility; by that which, in the technical language of Catholicism, suggests or possesses “the gift of tears.”  At any rate, pity and love for her poor Julie—­however foolish, however faulty—­lay warm in Evelyn Crowborough’s breast; they had brought her to Como; they kept her now battling on the one hand with her husband’s angry letters and on the other with the melancholy of her most perplexing, most appealing friend.

“I had often heard” [wrote the sore-tried Duke] “of the ravages wrought in family life by these absurd and unreasonable female friendships, but I never thought that it would be you, Evelyn, who would bring them home to me.  I won’t repeat the arguments I have used a hundred times in vain.  But once again I implore and demand that you should find some kind, responsible person to look after Miss Le Breton—­I don’t care what you pay—­and that you yourself should come home to me and the children and the thousand and one duties you are neglecting.

“As for the spring month in Scotland, which I generally enjoy so much, that has been already entirely ruined.  And now the season is apparently to be ruined also.  On the Shropshire property there is an important election coming on, as I am sure you know; and the Premier said to me only yesterday that he hoped you were already up and doing.  The Grand Duke of C——­ will be in London within the next fortnight.  I particularly want to show him some civility.  But what can I do without you—­and how on earth am I to explain your absence?

“Once more, Evelyn, I beg and I demand that you should come home.”

To which the Duchess had rushed off a reply without a post’s delay.

“Oh, Freddie, you are such a wooden-headed darling!  As if I hadn’t explained till I’m black in the face.  I’m glad, anyway, you didn’t say command; that would really have made difficulties.