The room seemed to swim around her. But his face was still plain--the purpled lips and cheeks, the urgency in the eyes, as of one pursued by an overtaking force, the magnificent brow, the crown of white hair.
She summoned all her powers and told him hurriedly that he was mistaken--entirely mistaken. Mr. Delafield had, indeed, proposed to her, but, apart from her own unwillingness, she had reason to know that his 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.