itten sheets. It was from
an English diplomat on a visit to Egypt, a man on whom the eyes of
Europe were at that moment fixed. That he should write to a woman at
all, on the subjects of the letter, involved a compliment _hors ligne_;
that he should write with this ease, this abandonment, was indeed
remarkable. Julie flushed a little as she read. But when she came to the
end she put it aside with a look of worry. "I _wish_ he'd write to Lady
Henry," was her thought. "She hasn't had a line from him for weeks. I
shouldn't wonder if she suspects already. When any one talks of Egypt, I
daren't open my lips."

For fear of betraying the very minute and first-hand information that
was possessed by Lady Henry's companion? With a smile and a shrug she
locked the letter away in one of the drawers of her writing-table, and
took up an envelope which had lain beneath it. From this--again with a
look round her--she half drew out a photograph. The grizzled head and
spectacled eyes of Dr. Meredith emerged. Julie's expression softened;
her eyebrows went up a little; then she slightly shook her head, like
one who protests that if something has gone wrong, it
isn't--isn't--their fault. Unwillingly she looked at the last words of
the letter:

"So, remember, I can give you work if you want it, and paying
work. I would rather give you my life and my all. But these,
it seems, are commodities for which you have no use. So be
it. But if you refuse to let me serve you, when the time
comes, in such ways as I have suggested in this letter, then,
indeed, you would be unkind--I would almost dare to say
ungrateful! Yours always

"F.M."

This letter also she locked away. But her hand lingered on the last of
all. She had read it three times already, and knew it practically by
heart. So she left the sheets undisturbed in their envelope. But she
raised the whole to her lips, and pressed it there, while her eyes, as
they slowly filled with tears, travelled--unseeing--to the wintry street
beyond the window. Eyes and face wore the same expression as Wilfrid
Bury had surprised there--the dumb utterance of a woman hard pressed,
not so much by the world without as by some wild force within.

In that still moment the postman's knock was heard in the street
outside. Julie Le Breton started, for no one whose life is dependent on
a daily letter can hear that common sound without a thrill. Then she
smiled sadly at herse