“You thought!” The speaker raised her shoulders fiercely.  “Comme toujours, vous vous etes trop bien amusee pour vous souvenir de mes instructions—­voila la verite!  Dr. Meredith,” the whole imperious form swung round again towards the journalist, “unless you forbid me, I shall tell Sir Wilfrid who it was reviewed his book for you.”

“Oh, good Heavens!  I forbid you with all the energy of which I am capable,” said the startled journalist, raising appealing hands, while Lady Henry, delighted with the effect produced by her sudden shaft, sank back in her chair and grimly smiled.

Meanwhile Sir Wilfrid Bury’s attention was still held by Mademoiselle Le Breton.  In the conversation between her and Lady Henry he had noticed an extraordinary change of manner on the part of the younger lady.  Her ease, her grace had disappeared.  Her tone was humble, her manner quivering with nervous anxiety.  And now, as she stood a moment behind Lady Henry’s chair, one trembling hand steadying the other, Sir Wilfrid was suddenly aware of yet another impression.  Lady Henry had treated her companion with a contemptuous and haughty ill-humor.  Face to face with her mistress, Mademoiselle Le Breton had borne it with submission, almost with servility.  But now, as she stood silent behind the blind old lady who had flouted her, her wonderfully expressive face, her delicate frame, spoke for her with an energy not to be mistaken.  Her dark eyes blazed.  She stood for anger; she breathed humiliation.

“A dangerous woman, and an extraordinary situation,” so ran his thought, while aloud he was talking Central Asian politics and the latest Simla gossip to his two companions.

Meanwhile, Captain Warkworth and Mademoiselle Le Breton returned together to the larger drawing-room, and before long Dr. Meredith took his leave.  Lady Henry and her old friend were left alone.

“I am sorry to hear that your sight troubles you more than of old,” said Sir Wilfrid, drawing his chair a little nearer to her.

Lady Henry gave an impatient sigh.  “Everything troubles me more than of old.  There is one disease from which no one recovers, my dear Wilfrid, and it has long since fastened upon me.”

“You mean old age?  Oh, you are not so much to be pitied for that,” said Sir Wilfrid, smiling.  “Many people would exchange their youth for your old age.”

“Then the world contains more fools than even I give it credit for!” said Lady Henry, with energy.  “Why should any one exchange with me—­a poor, blind, gouty old creature, with no chick or child to care whether she lives or dies?”

“Ah, well, that’s a misfortune—­I won’t deny that,” said Sir Wilfrid, kindly.  “But I come home after three years.  I find your house as thronged as ever, in the old way.  I see half the most distinguished people in London in your drawing-room.  It is sad that you can no longer receive them as you used to do:  but here you sit like a queen, and people fight for their turn with you.”