her from the
dark. "I have no prejudices," she had said to Sir Wilfrid. There were
many moments when she felt a fierce pride in the element of lawlessness,
of defiance, that seemed to be her inheritance from her parents. But
to-night she was afraid of it.

Again, if love was to go, _power_, the satisfaction of ambition,
remained. She threw a quick glance into the future--the future beyond
these three weeks. What could she make of it? She knew well that she was
not the woman to resign herself to a mere pining obscurity.

Jacob Delafield? Was it, after all, so impossible?

For a few minutes she set herself deliberately to think out what it
would mean to marry him; then suddenly broke down and wept, with
inarticulate cries and sobs, with occasional reminiscences of her old
convent's prayers, appeals half conscious, instinctive, to a God only
half believed.

XVI

Delafield was walking through the Park towards Victoria Gate. A pair of
beautiful roans pulled up suddenly beside him, and a little figure with
a waving hand bent to him from a carriage.

"Jacob, where are you off to? Let me give you a lift?"

The gentleman addressed took off his hat.

"Much obliged to you, but I want some exercise. I say, where did Freddie
get that pair?"

"I don't know, he doesn't tell me. Jacob, you must get in. I want to
speak to you."

Rather unwillingly, Delafield obeyed, and away they sped.

"J'ai un tas de choses a vous dire," she said, speaking low, and in
French, so as to protect herself from the servants in front. "Jacob, I'm
_very_ unhappy about Julie."

Delafield frowned uncomfortably.

"Why? Hadn't you better leave her alone?"

"Oh, of course, I know you think me a chatterbox. I don't care. You
_must_ let me tell you some fresh news about her. It _isn't_ gossip, and
you and I are her best friends. Oh, Freddie's so disagreeable about her.
Jacob, you've got to help and advise a little. Now, do listen. It's your
duty--your downright catechism duty."

And she poured into his reluctant ear the tale which Miss Emily
Lawrence nearly a fortnight before had confided to her.

"Of course," she wound up, "you'll say it's only what we knew or guessed
long ago. But you see, Jacob, we didn't _know_. It might have been just
gossip. And then, besides"--she frowned and dropped her voice till it
was only just audible--"this horrid man hadn't made our Julie so--so
conspicuous, and Lady Henry hadn't turned out such a toad--and,