She ran down the steps leading from the terrace to the lower garden.  Aileen looked at her mother.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” she said, in an ardent whisper.  “I could watch her forever.  She is the most graceful person I ever saw.  Mother, is she like Aunt Rose?”

Lady Blanche shook her head.

“Not in the least,” she said, shortly.  “She has too much manner for me.”

“Oh, mother!” And the girl caught her mother’s hand in caressing remonstrance, as though to say:  “Dear little mother, you must like her, because I do; and you mustn’t think of Aunt Rose, and all those terrible things, except for pity.”

“Hush!” said Lady Blanche, smiling at her a little excitedly.  “Hush; they’re coming!”

Delafield and Julie emerged from the iron staircase.  Lady Blanche turned and looked at the tall, distinguished pair, her ugly lower lip hardening ungraciously.  But she and Delafield had a slight previous acquaintance, and she noticed instantly the charming and solicitous kindness with which he greeted her daughter.

“Julie tells me Miss Moffatt is still far from strong,” he said, returning to the mother.

Lady Blanche only sighed for answer.  He drew a chair beside her, and they fell into the natural talk of people who belong to the same social world, and are travelling in the same scenes.

Meanwhile Julie was sitting beside the heiress.  Not much was said, but each was conscious of a lively interest in the other, and every now and then Julie would put out a careful hand and draw the shawls closer about the girl’s frail form.  The strain of guilty compunction that entered into Julie’s feeling did but make it the more sensitive.  She said to herself in a vague haste that now she would make amends.  If only Lady Blanche were willing—­

But she should be willing!  Julie felt the stirrings of the old self-confidence, the old trust in a social ingenuity which had, in truth, rarely failed her.  Her intriguing, managing instinct made itself felt—­the mood of Lady Henry’s companion.

* * * * *

Presently, as they were talking, Aileen caught sight of an English newspaper which Delafield had brought up from Montreux.  It lay still unopened on one of the tables of the terrace.

“Please give it me,” said the girl, stretching out an eager hand.  “It will have Tiny’s marriage, mamma!  A cousin of mine,” she explained to Julie, who rose to hand it to her.  “A very favorite cousin.  Oh, thank you.”

She opened the paper.  Julie turned away, that she might relieve Lady Blanche of her teacup.

Suddenly a cry rang out—­a cry of mortal anguish.  Two ladies who had just stepped out upon the terrace from the hotel drawing-room turned in terror; the gardener who was watering the flower-boxes at the farther end stood arrested.

“Aileen!” shrieked Lady Blanche, running to her.  “What—­what is it?”