is
feelings towards her were now entirely changed. He neither loved her nor
thought well of her.

Lord Lackington lay there, obstinate, patient, incredulous. At last he
interrupted her.

"You make yourself believe these things. But they are not true.
Delafield is attached to you. I know it."

He nodded to her with his masterful, affectionate look. And before she
could find words again he had resumed.

"He could give you a great position. Don't despise it. We English
big-wigs have a good time."

A ghostly, humorous ray shot out upon her; then he felt for her hand.

"Dear Julie, why won't you?"

"If you were to ask him," she cried, in despair, "he would tell you as I
do."

And across her miserable thoughts there flashed two mingled
images--Warkworth waiting, waiting for her at the Sceaux Station, and
that look of agonized reproach in Delafield's haggard face as he had
parted from her in the dawn of this strange, this incredible day.

And here beside her, with the tyranny of the dying, this dear babbler
wandered on in broken words, with painful breath, pleading, scolding,
counselling. She felt that he was exhausting himself. She begged him to
let her recall nurse and doctor. He shook his head, and when he could no
longer speak, he clung to her hand, his gaze solemnly, insistently,
fixed upon her.

Her spirit writhed and rebelled. But she was helpless in the presence of
this mortal weakness, this affection, half earthly, half beautiful, on
its knees before her.

A thought struck her. Why not content him? Whatever pledges she gave
would die with him. What did it matter? It was cruelty to deny him the
words--the mere empty words--he asked of her.

"I--I would do anything to please you!" she said, with a sudden burst of
uncontrollable tears, as she laid her head down beside him on the
pillow. "If he _were_ to ask me again, of course, for your sake, I would
consider it once more. Dear, dear friend, won't that satisfy you?"

Lord Lackington was silent a few moments, then he smiled.

"That's a promise?"

She raised herself and looked at him, conscious of a sick movement of
terror. What was there in his mind, still so quick, fertile, ingenious,
under the very shadow of death?

He waited for her answer, feebly pressing her hand.

"Yes," she said, faintly, and once more hid her face beside him.

Then, for some little time, the dying man neither stirred nor spoke. At
last Julie heard:

"I used to be afraid o