M. du Bartas, meanwhile, began to consider this lady in black with more and more attention.  The talk glided into a general discussion of the Egyptian position.  Those were the days before Arabi, when elements of danger and of doubt abounded, and none knew what a month might bring forth.  With perfect tact Julie guided the conversation, so that all difficulties, whether for the French official or the English statesman, were avoided with a skill that no one realized till each separate rock was safely passed.  Presently Montresor looked from her to Du Bartas with a grin.  The Frenchman’s eyes were round with astonishment.  Julie had been saying the lightest but the wisest things; she had been touching incidents and personalities known only to the initiated with a restrained gayety which often broke down into a charming shyness, which was ready to be scared away in a moment by a tone—­too serious or too polemical—­which jarred with the general key of the conversation, which never imposed itself, and was like the ripple on a summer sea.  But the summer sea has its depths, and this modest gayety was the mark of an intimate and first-hand knowledge.

“Ah, I see,” thought Montresor, amused.  “P——­ has been writing to her, the little minx.  He seems to have been telling her all the secrets.  I think I’ll stop it.  Even she mayn’t quite understand what should and shouldn’t be said before this gentleman.”

So he gave the conversation a turn, and Mademoiselle Le Breton took the hint at once.  She called others to the front—­it was like a change of dancers in the ballet—­while she rested, no less charming as a listener than as a talker, her black eyes turning from one to another and radiant with the animation of success.

But one thing—­at last—­she had forgotten.  She had forgotten to impose any curb upon the voices round her.  The Duchess and Lord Lackington were sparring like a couple of children, and Montresor broke in from time to time with his loud laugh and gruff throat voice.  Meredith, the Frenchman, Warkworth, and General Fergus were discussing a grand review which had been held the day before.  Delafield had moved round to the back of Julie’s chair, and she was talking to him, while all the time her eyes were on General Fergus and her brain was puzzling as to how she was to secure the five minutes’ talk with him she wanted.  He was one of the intimates of the Commander-in-Chief.  She herself had suggested to Montresor, of course in Lady Henry’s name, that he should be brought to Bruton Street some Wednesday evening.

Presently there was a little shifting of groups.  Julie saw that Montresor and Captain Warkworth were together by the fireplace, that the young man with his hands held out to the blaze and his back to her was talking eagerly, while Montresor, looking outward into the room, his great black head bent a little towards his companion, was putting sharp little questions from time to time, with as few words as might be.  Julie understood that an important conversation was going on—­that Montresor, whose mind various friends of hers had been endeavoring to make up for him, was now perhaps engaged in making it up for himself.