He sighed, and then quickly threw off his depression.

“Nonsense!  Next week she will be scolding us all with double energy.  Meanwhile, may we sit down, mademoiselle?  Ten minutes?  And, upon my word, the very thing my soul was longing for—­a cup of coffee!”

For at the moment Hutton and two footmen entered with trays containing tea and coffee, lemonade and cakes.

“Shut the door, Hutton, please,” Mademoiselle Le Breton implored, and the door was shut at once.

“We mustn’t, mustn’t make any noise!” she said, her finger on her lip, looking first at Montresor and then at Delafield.  The group laughed, moved their spoons softly, and once more lowered their voices.

But the coffee brought a spirit of festivity.  Chairs were drawn up.  The blazing fire shone out upon a semicircle of people representing just those elements of mingled intimacy and novelty which go to make conversation.  And in five minutes Mademoiselle Le Breton was leading it as usual.  A brilliant French book had recently appeared dealing with certain points of the Egyptian question in a manner so interesting, supple, and apparently impartial that the attention of Europe had been won.  Its author had been formerly a prominent official of the French Foreign Office, and was now somewhat out of favor with his countrymen.  Julie put some questions about him to M. du Bartas.

The Frenchman feeling himself among comrades worthy of his steel, and secretly pricked by the presence of an English cabinet minister, relinquished the half-disdainful reserve with which he had entered, and took pains.  He drew the man in question, en silhouette, with a hostile touch so sure, an irony so light, that his success was instant and great.

Lord Lackington woke up.  Handsome, white-haired dreamer that he was, he had been looking into the fire, half—­smiling, more occupied, in truth, with his own thoughts than with his companions.  Delafield had brought him in; he did not exactly know why he was there, except that he liked Mademoiselle Le Breton, and often wondered how the deuce Lady Henry had ever discovered such an interesting and delightful person to fill such an uncomfortable position.  But this Frenchman challenged and excited him.  He, too, began to talk French, and soon the whole room was talking it, with an advantage to Julie Le Breton which quickly made itself apparent.  In English she was a link, a social conjunction; she eased all difficulties, she pieced all threads.  But in French her tongue was loosened, though never beyond the point of grace, the point of delicate adjustment to the talkers round her.

So that presently, and by insensible gradations, she was the queen of the room.  The Duchess in ecstasy pinched Jacob Delafield’s wrist, and forgetting all that she ought to have remembered, whispered, rapturously, in his ear, “Isn’t she enchanting—­Julie—­to-night?” That gentleman made no answer.  The Duchess, remembering, shrank back, and spoke no more, till Jacob looked round upon her with a friendly smile which set her tongue free again.