“Can you really give me no clew to the—­to the sources of Lady Henry’s dissatisfaction?” he said, at last, rather coldly.

Mademoiselle Le Breton hesitated.

“I don’t want to make myself out a saint,” she said, at last, in another voice and with a humility which was, in truth, hardly less proud than her self-assertion.  “I—­I was brought up in poverty, and my mother died when I was fifteen.  I had to defend myself as the poor defend themselves—­by silence.  I learned not to talk about my own affairs.  I couldn’t afford to be frank, like a rich English girl.  I dare say, sometimes I have concealed things which had been better made plain.  They were never of any real importance, and if Lady Henry had shown any consideration—­”

Her voice failed her a little, evidently to her annoyance.  They walked on without speaking for a few paces.  “Never of any real importance?” Sir Wilfrid wondered.

Their minds apparently continued the conversation though their lips were silent, for presently Julie Le Breton said, abruptly: 

“Of course I am speaking of matters where Lady Henry might have some claim to information.  With regard to many of my thoughts and feelings, Lady Henry has no right whatever to my confidence.”

“She gives us fair warning,” thought Sir Wilfrid.

Aloud he said: 

“It is not a question of thoughts and feelings, I understand, but of actions.”

“Like the visit to the Duncombes’?” said Mademoiselle Le Breton, impatiently.  “Oh, I quite admit it—­that’s only one of several instances Lady Henry might have brought forward.  You see, she led me to make these friendships; and now, because they annoy her, I am to break them.  But she forgets.  Friends are too—­too new in my life, too precious—­”

Again the voice wavered.  How it thrilled and penetrated!  Sir Wilfrid found himself listening for every word.

“No,” she resumed.  “If it is a question of renouncing the friends I have made in her house, or going—­it will be going.  That may as well be quite clear.”

Sir Wilfrid looked up.

“Let me ask you one question, mademoiselle.”

“Certainly.  Whatever you like.”

“Have you ever had, have you now, any affection for Lady Henry?”

“Affection?  I could have had plenty.  Lady Henry is most interesting to watch.  It is magnificent, the struggles she makes with her infirmities.”

Nothing could have been more agreeable than the modulation of these words, the passage of the tone from a first note of surprise to its grave and womanly close.  Again, the same suggestions of veiled and vibrating feeling.  Sir Wilfrid’s nascent dislike softened a little.

“After all,” he said, with gentleness, “one must make allowance for old age and weakness, mustn’t one?”