offer. I don't think lightly of such actions as your
mother's--not at all. But I can't bear to think of her daughter alone
and friendless in London."

Yet even as he spoke he seemed to be listening to another person. He did
not himself understand the feelings which animated him, nor the strength
with which his recollections of Lady Rose had suddenly invaded him.

Julie leaned her arms on the mantel-piece, and hid her face. She had
turned her back to them, and they saw that she was crying softly.

The Duchess crept up to her and wound her arms round her.

"You will, Julie!--you will! Lady Henry has turned you out-of-doors at a
moment's notice. And it was a great deal my fault. You _must_ let us
help you!"

Julie did not answer, but, partially disengaging herself, and without
looking at him, she held out her hand to the Duke.

He pressed it with a cordiality that amazed him.

"That's right--that's right. Now, Evelyn, I leave you to make the
arrangements. The keys shall be here this afternoon. Miss Le Breton, of
course, stays here till things are settled. As for me, I must really be
off to my meeting. One thing, Miss Le Breton--"

"Yes."

"I think," he said, gravely, "you ought to reveal yourself to Lord
Lackington."

She shrank.

"You'll let me take my own time for that?" was her appealing reply.

"Very well--very well. We'll speak of it again."

And he hurried away. As he descended his own stairs astonishment at what
he had done rushed upon him and overwhelmed him.

"How on earth am I ever to explain the thing to Lady Henry?"

And as he went citywards in his cab, he felt much more guilty than his
wife had ever done. What _could_ have made him behave in this
extraordinary, this preposterous way? A touch of foolish
romance--immoral romance--of which he was already ashamed? Or the one
bare fact that this woman had refused Jacob Delafield?

XI

"Here it is," said the Duchess, as the carriage stopped. "Isn't it an
odd little place?"

And as she and Julie paused on the pavement, Julie looked listlessly at
her new home. It was a two-storied brick house, built about 1780. The
front door boasted a pair of Ionian columns and a classical canopy or
pediment. The windows had still the original small panes; the _mansarde_
roof, with its one dormer, was untouched. The little house had rather
deep eaves; three windows above; two, and the front door, below. It wore
a prim, old-fashioned air, a good deal softene