And his wife turned upon him as an image of war, her fair hair ruffling about her ears, her cheeks and eyes brilliant with anger--and something more.
The Duke rose in silent ferocity and sought for some letters which he had left on the mantel-piece.
"I had better leave you to come to your senses by yourself, and as quickly as possible," he said, as he put them into his pockets. "No good can come of any more discussion of this sort."
The Duchess said nothing. She looked out of the window busily, and bit her lip. Her silence served her better than her speech, for suddenly the Duke looked round, hesitated, threw down a book he carried, walked up to her, and took her in his arms.
"You are a very foolish child," he declared, as he held her by main force and kissed away her tears. "You make me lose my temper--and waste my time--for nothing."
"Not at all," said the sobbing Duchess, trying to push herself away, and denying him, as best she could, her soft, flushed face. "You don't, or you won't, understand! I was--I was very fond of Uncle George Chantrey. _He_ would have helped Julie if he were alive. And as for you, you're Lord Lackington's godson, and you're always preaching what he's done for the army, and what the nation owes him--and--and--"
"Does he know?" said the Duke, abruptly, marvelling at the irrelevance of these remarks.
"No, not a word. Only six people in London know--Aunt Flora, Sir Wilfrid Bury"--the Duke made an exclamation--"Mr. Montresor, Jacob, you, and I."
"Jacob!" said the Duke. "What's he got to do with it?"
The Duchess suddenly saw her opportunity, and rushed upon it.
"Only that he's madly in love with her, that's all. And, to my knowledge, she has refused him both last year and this. Of course, naturally, if you won't do anything to help her, she'll probably marry him--simply as a way out."
"Well, of all the extraordinary affairs!"
The Duke released her, and stood bewildered. The Duchess watched him in some excitement. He was about to speak, when there was a sound in the anteroom. They moved hastily apart. The door was thrown open, and the footman announced, "Miss Le Breton."
Julie Le Breton entered, and stood a moment on the threshold, looking, not in embarrassment, but with a certain hesitation, at the two persons whose conversation she had disturbed. She was pale with sleeplessness; her look was sad and weary. But never had she been more composed, more elegant. Her closely fitting black cloth dress; her strangely expressive face, framed by a large hat, very simple, but worn as only the woman of fashion knows how; her miraculous yet most graceful slenderness; the delicacy of her hands; the natural dignity of her movements--these things produced an immediate, though, no doubt, conflicting impression upon the gentleman who had just been denouncing her. He bowed, with an involuntary deference which he had not at all meant to show to Lady Henry's insubordinate companion, and then stood frowning.