“Oh, go on—­go on!” said the Duke, throwing himself exasperated into an arm-chair; “the ease with which you dispose of my property on behalf of a young woman who has caused me most acute annoyance, who has embroiled us with a near relation for whom I have a very particular respect! Her friends, indeed!  Lady Henry’s friends, you mean.  Poor Lady Henry tells me in this letter that her circle will be completely scattered.  This mischievous woman in three years has destroyed what it has taken Lady Henry nearly thirty to build up.  Now look here, Evelyn”—­the Duke sat up and slapped his knee—­“as to this Cureton Street plan, I will do nothing of the kind.  You may have Miss Le Breton here for two or three nights if you like—­I shall probably go down to the country—­and, of course, I have no objection to make if you wish to help her find another situation—­”

“Another situation!” cried the Duchess, beside herself.  “Freddie, you really are impossible!  Do you understand that I regard Julie Le Breton as my relation, whatever you may say—­that I love her dearly—­that there are fifty people with money and influence ready to help her if you won’t, because she is one of the most charming and distinguished women in London—­that you ought to be proud to do her a service—­that I want you to have the honor of it—­there!  And if you won’t do this little favor for me—­when I ask and beg it of you—­I’ll make you remember it for a very long time to come—­you may be sure of that!”

And his wife turned upon him as an image of war, her fair hair ruffling about her ears, her cheeks and eyes brilliant with anger—­and something more.

The Duke rose in silent ferocity and sought for some letters which he had left on the mantel-piece.

“I had better leave you to come to your senses by yourself, and as quickly as possible,” he said, as he put them into his pockets.  “No good can come of any more discussion of this sort.”

The Duchess said nothing.  She looked out of the window busily, and bit her lip.  Her silence served her better than her speech, for suddenly the Duke looked round, hesitated, threw down a book he carried, walked up to her, and took her in his arms.

“You are a very foolish child,” he declared, as he held her by main force and kissed away her tears.  “You make me lose my temper—­and waste my time—­for nothing.”

“Not at all,” said the sobbing Duchess, trying to push herself away, and denying him, as best she could, her soft, flushed face.  “You don’t, or you won’t, understand!  I was—­I was very fond of Uncle George Chantrey. He would have helped Julie if he were alive.  And as for you, you’re Lord Lackington’s godson, and you’re always preaching what he’s done for the army, and what the nation owes him—­and—­and—­”

“Does he know?” said the Duke, abruptly, marvelling at the irrelevance of these remarks.

“No, not a word.  Only six people in London know—­Aunt Flora, Sir Wilfrid Bury”—­the Duke made an exclamation—­“Mr. Montresor, Jacob, you, and I.”