"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 _habitués_ 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. "_She_, of course, is enchanted. Her husband has never been her own till now. She married him, subject to Lady Henry's rights. But all that she will soon forget--and my existence with it." "I won't argue. It only makes you more stubborn," said Meredith. "Ah, still they come!" For the door opened to admit the tall figure of Major Warkworth. "Am I very late?" he said, with a surprised look as he glanced at the thinly scattered room. Julie greeted him, and he excused himself on the ground of a dinner which had begun just an hour late, owing to the tardiness of a cabinet minister. Meredith observed the young man with some attention, from the dark corner in which Julie had left him. The gossip of the moment had reached him also, but he had not paid much heed to it. It seemed to him that no one knew anything first-hand of the Moffatt affair. And for himself, he found it difficult to believe that Julie Le Breton was any man's dupe. She must marry, poor thing! Of course she must marry. Since it had been plain to him that she would never listen to his own suit, this great-hearted and clear-brained man had done his best to stifle in himself all small or grasping impulses. But this fellow--with his inferior temper and morale--alack! why are the clever women such fools? If only she had confided in him--her old and tried friend--he thought he could have put things before her, so as to influence without offending her. But he suffered--had always suffered--from the jealous reserve which underlay her charm, her inborn tendency to secretiveness and intrigue. Now, as he watched her few words with Warkworth, it seemed to him that he saw the signs of some hidden relation. How flushed she was suddenly, and her eyes so bright!