some furniture that she
has warehoused. I may go with her. I, too, have some property stored
there. I should go and see some old friends--the _soeurs_, for instance,
with whom I went to school. In the old days I was a torment to them, and
they were tyrants to me. But they are quite nice to me now--they give me
_patisserie_, and stroke my hands and spoil me."

And she rattled on about the friends she might revisit, in a hollow,
perfunctory way, which set him on edge.

"I don't see that anything of that kind will do you any good. You want
rest of mind and body. I expect those last scenes with Lady Henry cost
you more than you knew. There are wounds one does not notice at
the time--"

"Which afterwards bleed inwardly?" She laughed. "No, no, I am not
bleeding for Lady Henry. By-the-way, what news of her?"

"Sir Wilfrid told me to-day that he had had a letter. She is at Torquay,
and she thinks there are too many curates at Torquay. She is not at all
in a good temper."

Julie looked up.

"You know that she is trying to punish me. A great many people seem to
have been written to."

"That will blow over."

"I don't know. How confident I was at one time that, if there was a
breach, it would be Lady Henry that would suffer! It makes me hot to
remember some things I said--to Sir Wilfrid, in particular. I see now
that I shall not be troubled with society in this little house."

"It is too early for you to guess anything of that kind."

"Not at all! London is pretty full. The affair has made a noise. Those
who meant to stand by me would have called, don't you think?"

The quivering bitterness of her face was most pitiful in Jacob's eyes.

"Oh, people take their time," he said, trying to speak lightly.

She shook her head.

"It's ridiculous that I should care. One's self-love, I suppose--_that_
bleeds! Evelyn has made me send out cards for a little house-warming.
She said I must. She made me go to that smart party at Chatton House the
other night. It was a great mistake. People turned their backs on me.
And this, too, will be a mistake--and a failure."

"You were kind enough to send me a card."

"Yes--and you must come?"

She looked at him with a sudden nervous appeal, which made another tug
on his self-control.

"Of course I shall come."

"Do you remember your own saying--that awful evening--that I had devoted
friends? Well, we shall soon see."

"That depends only on yourself," he replied, with gentle delib