hess had sent round for the
embellishment of the dining-room. Then she summoned Madame Bornier, and
asked him a number of questions on Leonie's behalf, with reference to
some little investment of the ex-governess's savings, which had been
dropping in value. Meanwhile, as she kept him talking, she leaned
herself against the lintel of the door, forgetting every now and then
that any one else was there, and letting the true self appear, like some
drowned thing floating into sight. Delafield disposed of Madame
Bornier's affairs, hardly knowing what he said, but showing in truth his
usual conscience and kindness. Then when Leonie was contented, Julie saw
the little cripple crossing the hall, and called to her.

"Ah, ma cherie! How is the poor little foot?"

And turning to Delafield, she explained volubly that Therese had given
herself a slight twist on the stairs that morning, pressing the child to
her side the while with a tender gesture. The child nestled against her.

"Shall maman keep back supper?" Therese half whispered, looking at
Delafield.

"No, no, I must go!" cried Delafield, rousing himself and looking for
his hat.

"I would ask you to stay," said Julie, smiling, "just to show off
Leonie's cooking; but there wouldn't be enough for a great big man. And
you're probably dining with dukes."

Delafield disclaimed any such intention, and they went back to the
drawing-room to look for his hat and stick. Julie still had her arm
round Therese and would not let the child go. She clearly avoided being
left alone with him; and yet it seemed, even to his modesty, that she
was loath to see him depart. She talked first of her little _menage_, as
though proud of their daily economies and contrivances; then of her
literary work and its prospects; then of her debt to Meredith. Never
before had she thus admitted him to her domestic and private life. It
was as though she leaned upon his sympathy, his advice, his mere
neighborhood. And her pale, changed face had never seemed to him so
beautiful--never, in fact, truly beautiful till now. The dying down of
the brilliance and energy of the strongly marked character, which had
made her the life of the Bruton Street salon, into this mildness, this
despondency, this hidden weariness, had left her infinitely more lovely
in his eyes. But how to restrain himself much longer from taking the
sad, gracious woman in his arms and coercing her into sanity and
happiness!

At last he tore him