“You have been an invalid,” she said.  “You ought not to go farther.  May I take you home?  Would your mother dislike to see me?”

The girl paused perceptibly.  “Ah, there she is!”

They had turned towards Brent, and Julie saw coming towards them, with somewhat rapid steps, a small, elderly lady, gray-haired, her features partly hidden by her country hat.

A thrill passed through Julie.  This was the sister whose name her mother had mentioned in her last hour.  It was as though something of her mother, something that must throw light upon that mother’s life and being, were approaching her along this Swiss road.

But the lady in question, as she neared them, looked with surprise, not unmingled with hauteur, upon her daughter and the stranger beside her.

“Aileen, why did you go so far?  You promised me only to be a quarter of an hour.”

“I am not tired, mother.  Mother, this is Mrs. Delafield.  You remember, Uncle Uredale wrote—­”

Lady Blanche Moffatt stood still.  Once more a fear swept through Julie’s mind, and this time it stayed.  After an evident hesitation, a hand was coldly extended.

“How do you do?  I heard from my brothers of your marriage, but they said you were in Italy.”

“We have just come from there.”

“And your husband?”

“He has gone down to Montreux, but he should be home very soon now.  We are only a few steps from our little inn.  Would you not rest there?  Miss Moffatt looks very tired.”

There was a pause.  Lady Blanche was considering her daughter.  Julie saw the trembling of her wide, irregular mouth, of which the lips were slightly turned outward.  Finally she drew her daughter’s hand into her arm, and bent anxiously towards her, scrutinizing her face.

“Thank you.  We will rest a quarter of an hour.  Can we get a carriage at Charnex?”

“Yes, I think so, if you will wait a little on our balcony.”

They walked on towards Charnex.  Lady Blanche began to talk resolutely of the weather, which was, indeed, atrocious.  She spoke as she would have done to the merest acquaintance.  There was not a word of her father; not a word, either, of her brother’s letter, or of Julie’s relationship to herself.  Julie accepted the situation with perfect composure, and the three kept up some sort of a conversation till they reached the paved street of Charnex and the old inn at its lower end.

Julie guided her companions through its dark passages, till they reached an outer terrace where there were a few scattered seats, and among them a deck-chair with cushions.

“Please,” said Julie, as she kindly drew the girl towards it.  Aileen smiled and yielded.  Julie placed her among the cushions, then brought out a shawl, and covered her warmly from the sharp, damp air.  Aileen thanked her, and lightly touched her hand.  A secret sympathy seemed to have suddenly sprung up between them.