eanwhile Julie was sitting beside the heiress. Not much was said, but
each was conscious of a lively interest in the other, and every now and
then Julie would put out a careful hand and draw the shawls closer about
the girl's frail form. The strain of guilty compunction that entered
into Julie's feeling did but make it the more sensitive. She said to
herself in a vague haste that now she would make amends. If only Lady
Blanche were willing--

But she should be willing! Julie felt the stirrings of the old
self-confidence, the old trust in a social ingenuity which had, in
truth, rarely failed her. Her intriguing, managing instinct made itself
felt--the mood of Lady Henry's companion.

* * * * *

Presently, as they were talking, Aileen caught sight of an English
newspaper which Delafield had brought up from Montreux. It lay still
unopened on one of the tables of the terrace.

"Please give it me," said the girl, stretching out an eager hand. "It
will have Tiny's marriage, mamma! A cousin of mine," she explained to
Julie, who rose to hand it to her. "A very favorite cousin. Oh,
thank you."

She opened the paper. Julie turned away, that she might relieve Lady
Blanche of her teacup.

Suddenly a cry rang out--a cry of mortal anguish. Two ladies who had
just stepped out upon the terrace from the hotel drawing-room turned in
terror; the gardener who was watering the flower-boxes at the farther
end stood arrested.

"Aileen!" shrieked Lady Blanche, running to her. "What--what is it?"

The paper had dropped to the floor, but the child still pointed to it,
gasping.

"Mother--mother!"

Some intuition woke in Julie. She stood dead-white and dumb, while Lady
Blanche threw herself on her daughter.

"Aileen, darling, what is it?"

The girl, in her agony, threw her arms frantically round her mother, and
dragged herself to her feet. She stood tottering, her hand over
her eyes.

"He's dead, mother! He's--dead!"

The last word sank into a sound more horrible even than the first cry.
Then she swayed out of her mother's arms. It was Julie who caught her,
who laid her once more on the deck-chair--a broken, shrunken form, in
whom all the threads and connections of life had suddenly, as it were,
fallen to ruin. Lady Blanche hung over her, pushing Julie away,
gathering the unconscious girl madly in her arms. Delafield rushed for
water-and-brandy. Julie snatched the paper and looked at the telegrams.