"I suppose," said Julie, shrugging her shoulders, "I had been thinking of the French maîtresses de salon, like a fool; of Mademoiselle de l'Espinasse--or Madame Mohl--imagining that people would come to me for a cup of tea and an agreeable hour. But in England, it seems, people must be paid to talk. Talk is a business affair--you give it for a consideration."
"No, no! You'll build it up," said Meredith. In his heart of hearts he said to himself that she had not been herself that night. Her wonderful social instincts, her memory, her adroitness, had somehow failed her. And from a hostess strained, conscious, and only artificially gay, the little gathering had taken its note.
"You have the old guard, anyway," added the journalist, with a smile, as he looked round the room. The Duchess, Delafield, Montresor and his wife, General McGill, and three or four other old habitués of the Bruton Street evenings were scattered about the little drawing-room. General Fergus, too, was there--had arrived early, and was staying late. His frank soldier's face, the accent, cheerful, homely, careless, with which he threw off talk full of marrow, talk only possible--for all its simplicity--to a man whose life had been already closely mingled with the fortunes of his country, had done something to bind Julie's poor little party together. Her eye rested on him with gratitude. Then she replied to Meredith.
"Mr. Montresor will scarcely come again."
"What do you mean? Ungrateful lady! Montresor! who has already sacrificed Lady Henry and the habits of thirty years to your beaux yeux!"
"That is what he will never forgive me," said Julie, sadly. "He has satisfied his pride, and I--have lost a friend."
"Pessimist! Mrs. Montresor seemed to me most friendly."
Julie laughed.
"She, of course, is enchanted. Her husband has never been her own till now. She married him, subject to Lady Henry's rights. But all that she will soon forget--and my existence with it."
"I won't argue. It only makes you more stubborn," said Meredith. "Ah, still they come!"