"My future!" She shivered as she dropped into her seat.
How weary and beaten-down she looked--the heroine of such a turmoil! Her eyes travelled from face to face, shrinking--unconsciously appealing. In the dim, soft color of the room, her white face and hands, striking against her black dress, were strangely living and significant. They spoke command--through weakness, through sex. For that, in spite of intellectual distinction, was, after all, her secret. She breathed femininity--the old common spell upon the blood.
"I don't know why you're all so kind to me," she murmured. "Let me disappear. I can go into the country and earn my living there. Then I shall be no more trouble."
Unseen himself, Sir Wilfrid surveyed her. He thought her a consummate actress, and revelled in each new phase.
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."