itical month. Now was the moment to
stand by me, or throw me over--n'est-ce pas? This is my first party, my
house-warming. I gave a fortnight's notice; I asked about sixty people,
whom I knew _well_. Some did not answer at all. Of the rest, half
declined--rather curtly, in many instances. And of those who accepted,
not all are here. And, oh, how it dragged!"

Meredith looked at her rather guiltily, not knowing what to say. It was
true the evening had dragged. In both their minds there rose the memory
of Lady Henry's "Wednesdays," the beautiful rooms, the varied and
brilliant company, the power and consideration which had attended Lady
Henry's companion.

"I suppose," said Julie, shrugging her shoulders, "I had been thinking
of the French _maitresses 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 _habitues_ 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.