soldier was metal more attractive. Sir
Wilfrid reflected, with an inward shrug, that, once let a woman give
herself to such a fury as possessed Lady Henry, and there did not seem
to be much to choose between her imaginings and those of the most vulgar
of her sex.

So Jacob could be played with--whistled on and whistled off as Miss Le
Breton chose? Yet his was not a face that suggested it, any more than
the face of Dr. Meredith. The young man's countenance was gradually
changing its aspect for Sir Wilfrid, in a somewhat singular way, as old
impressions of his character died away and new ones emerged. The face,
now, often recalled to Bury a portrait by some Holbeinesque master,
which he had seen once in the Basle Museum and never forgotten. A large,
thin-lipped mouth that, without weakness, suggested patience; the long
chin of a man of will; nose, bluntly cut at the tip, yet in the nostril
and bridge most delicate; grayish eyes, with a veil of reverie drawn, as
it were, momentarily across them, and showing behind the veil a kind of
stern sweetness; fair hair low on the brow, which was heavy, and made a
massive shelter for the eyes. So looked the young German who had perhaps
heard Melanchthon; so, in this middle nineteenth century, looked Jacob
Delafield. No, anger makes obtuse; that, no doubt, was Lady Henry's
case. At any rate, in Delafield's presence her theory did not
commend itself.

But if Delafield had not echoed them, the little Duchess had received
Meredith's remarks with enthusiasm.

"Regret! No, indeed! Why should we regret anything, except that Julie
has been miserable so long? She _has_ had a bad time. Every day and all
day. Ah, you don't know--none of you. You haven't seen all the little
things as I have."

"The errands, and the dogs," said Sir William, slyly.

The Duchess threw him a glance half conscious, half resentful, and went
on:

"It has been one small torture after another. Even when a person's old
you can't bear more than a certain amount, can you? You oughtn't to. No,
let's be thankful it's all over, and Julie--our dear, delightful
Julie--who has done everybody in this room all sorts of kindnesses,
hasn't she?"

An assenting murmur ran round the circle.

"Julie's _free_! Only she's _very_ lonely. We must see to that, mustn't
we? Lady Henry can buy another companion to-morrow--she will. She has
heaps of money and heaps of friends, and she'll tell her own story to
them all. But Julie has o