se.

The Duchess, half laughing, half crying, began to scold her friend.
Delafield bent over Julie Le Breton's chair.

"Have you had some tea?"

The smile in his eyes provoked a faint answer in hers. While she was
declaring that she was in no need whatever of physical sustenance,
Meredith advanced with his portfolio. He looked the editor merely, and
spoke with a business-like brevity.

"I have brought the sheets of the new Shelley book, Miss Le Breton. It
is due for publication on the 22d. Kindly let me have your review within
a week. It may run to two columns--possibly even two and a half. You
will find here also the particulars of one or two other things--let me
know, please, what you will undertake."

Julie put out a languid hand for the portfolio.

"I don't think you ought to trust me."

"What do you want of her?" said Lord Lackington, briskly. "'Chatter
about Harriet?' I could write you reams of that myself. I once saw
Harriet."

"Ah!"

Meredith, with whom the Shelley cult was a deep-rooted passion, started
and looked round; then sharply repressed the eagerness on his tongue and
sat down by Miss Le Breton, with whom, in a lowered voice, he began to
discuss the points to be noticed in the sheets handed over to her. No
stronger proof could he have given of his devotion to her. Julie knew
it, and, rousing herself, she met him with a soft attention and
docility; thus tacitly relinquishing, as Bury noticed with amusement,
all talk of "disappearance."

Only with himself, he suspected, was the fair lady ill at ease. And,
indeed, it was so. Julie, by her pallor, her humility, had thrown
herself, as it were, into the arms of her friends, and each was now
vying with the other as to how best to cheer and console her. Meanwhile
her attention was really bent upon her critic--her only critic in this
assembly; and he discovered various attempts to draw him into
conversation. And when Lord Lackington, discomfited by Meredith, had
finished discharging his literary recollections upon him, Sir Wilfrid
became complaisant; Julie slipped in and held him.

Leaning her chin on both hands, she bent towards him, fixing him with
her eyes. And in spite of his antagonism he no longer felt himself
strong enough to deny that the eyes were beautiful, especially with this
tragic note in them of fatigue and pain.

"Sir Wilfrid"--she spoke in low entreaty--"you _must_ help me to prevent
any breach between Lady Henry and Mr. Montresor