And then she set against it, proudly, that disinterestedness of which, as she vowed to herself, no one but she knew the facts.  It was true, what she had said to the Duchess and to Sir Wilfrid.  Plenty of people would give her money, would make her life comfortable, without the need for any daily slavery.  She would not take it.  Jacob Delafield would marry her, if she lifted her finger; and she would not lift it.  Dr. Meredith would marry her, and she had said him nay.  She hugged the thought of her own unknown and unapplauded integrity.  It comforted her pride.  It drew a veil over that wounding laughter which had gleamed for a moment through those long lashes of Sir Wilfrid Bury.

Last of all, as she sank into her restless sleep, came the remembrance that she was still under Lady Henry’s roof.  In the silence of the night the difficulties of her situation pressed upon and tormented her.  What was she to do?  Whom was she to trust?

* * * * *

“Dixon, how is Lady Henry?”

“Much too ill to come down-stairs, miss.  She’s very much put out; in fact, miss (the maid lowered her voice), you hardly dare go near her.  But she says herself it would be absurd to attempt it.”

“Has Hatton had any orders?”

“Yes, miss.  I’ve just told him what her ladyship wishes.  He’s to tell everybody that Lady Henry’s very sorry, and hoped up to the last moment to be able to come down as usual.”

“Has Lady Henry all she wants, Dixon?  Have you taken her the evening papers?”

“Oh yes, miss.  But if you go in to her much her ladyship says you’re disturbing her; and if you don’t go, why, of course, everybody’s neglecting her.”

“Do you think I may go and say good-night to her, Dixon?”

The maid hesitated.

“I’ll ask her, miss—­I’ll certainly ask her.”

The door closed, and Julie was left alone in the great drawing-room of the Bruton Street house.  It had been prepared as usual for the Wednesday—­evening party.  The flowers were fresh; the chairs had been arranged as Lady Henry liked to have them; the parquet floors shone under the electric light; the Gainsboroughs seemed to look down from the walls with a gay and friendly expectancy.

For herself, Julie had just finished her solitary dinner, still buoyed up while she was eating it by the hope that Lady Henry would be able to come down.  The bitter winds of the two previous days, however, had much aggravated her chronic rheumatism.  She was certainly ill and suffering; but Julie had known her make such heroic efforts before this to keep her Wednesdays going that not till Dixon appeared with her verdict did she give up hope.