"My dear Julien!"

The Duchess was very impressive indeed. From the depths of an easy-chair in her sitting-room at the Ritz Hotel she held out both her hands, and in her eyes was that peculiar strained look which Julien had only been privileged to observe once or twice in his life. It indicated, or rather it was the Duchess's substitute for, emotion. Julien at once perceived, therefore, that this was an occasion.

"First of all," she went on, motioning him to a chair, "first of all, before I say a single word about this strange thing which has brought me to Paris, let me congratulate you. I always knew, dear Julien, that you would do something, that you would not allow yourself to be altogether crushed by the machinations of that hateful woman."

"Really," Julien began, "I am not quite sure—"

"I mean your letters, of course," she interrupted. "The Duke, when he finished the first one, said only one thing—'Wonderful!' That is just how we all feel about them, Julien. I met Lord Cardington only a few hours before I left London, and he was absolutely enthusiastic. 'If one thing,' he said, 'will save the country, it is this splendid attack upon the new diplomacy!'—as you so cleverly called it. The Duke tells me that that first article of yours is to be printed as a leaflet and distributed throughout the country."

"I am very glad," Julien said, "to hear all this. Tell me, what brings you to Paris? Is the Duke with you?"

The Duchess smiled at him reproachfully.

"You ask me what brings me to Paris, Julien? Come, come! You and I mustn't begin like that. I want you to tell me at once where she is."

"Where who is?"

"Anne, of course! Please don't play with me. Consider what a terrible time we have all been through."

Julien did not at once reply. His very hesitation seemed to afford the
Duchess a lively satisfaction.

"There!" she declared. "You are not going to pretend, then, that you don't know? That is excellent. Julien, tell me at once where to find her. Take me to her."

"I am afraid I can't do that," Julien objected.

"My dear—my dear Julien!" the Duchess protested. "This is all so foolish. Why should there be any mystery about Anne's whereabouts? I am not angry. I ought to be, perhaps, but you see I have guessed my dear girl's secret. I've felt for her terribly during the last few weeks, but it was so hard to know what to do. It seemed shocking at the time, but perhaps, after all, the course which she adopted was the wisest."

"I am very glad to hear that you are taking it like that," Julien remarked, "and I am sure Anne will be. I think the best thing I can do is to go and see her and tell her that you are here—"

"She does not know, then?" the Duchess interrupted.

"Why, of course not," Julien replied. "I received your note early this morning—before I was up, in fact—and you begged me so earnestly to come round at once that I came straight here without calling anywhere."

The Duchess coughed.

"Very well, Julien, I will leave you to go and fetch Anne whenever you like. I shall await you here impatiently. Tell me how it was that you both managed to deceive us so completely?"

Julien shook his head.

"I haven't the slightest notion what you mean."

The Duchess shrugged her shoulders.

"For my part," she said, "I always looked upon dear Anne as the most unemotional, unsentimental person. Naturally I thought that she was a little attracted towards you, but on the other hand I had no idea that she looked upon marriage as anything but a reasonable and necessary part of life. I had no idea, even, that she had any real affection for you."

"Affection for me!"

Julien looked up. The Duchess was regarding him as a mother might look at a naughty child whom she intended to pardon.

"I did notice," she continued, "that Anne seemed very silent for some time after your departure, and there was a curious lack of enthusiasm about her preparations for the wedding with Mr. Samuel Harbord. She scarcely looked, even, at the pearls he gave her. You know that I found them on the floor of her bedroom after she had gone away? Well, well, never mind that," the Duchess went on. "When I got her hurried note and understood the whole affair, I must say that on the whole it was a relief to me. Dear Anne—she is only like what I was at her age, before I married the Duke. You ought to be very proud and happy, Julien."

"I should be very happy," Julien declared, "to understand in the least what you are talking about."

The Duchess stared at him.

"My good man," she cried, "my own daughter runs away on the eve of her marriage, throws all Society into a commotion, comes to Paris to join the man whom she cares for—you—you, Julien—and then you affect to misunderstand!"

Julien was speechless for several moments. He was conscious of a little wave of strange emotion. The walls of the hotel sitting-room fell away. He was standing on the edge of the wood behind the shrubbery of laurels. The smell of the country gardens, the distant music, the delicious stillness, the queer, troubled look in Anne's eyes, her suddenly quickened breath, that moment which had passed so soon! It came back to him with a peculiar insistence during those few seconds!

Then he brushed it away.

"My dear Duchess," he said slowly, "you are laboring under some extraordinary mistake. Anne and I were very good friends and I think that we should have made a reasonably contented couple. That, however, was naturally broken off at once owing to my misfortune. Anne's visit to Paris, her sudden flight from London, had nothing whatever to do with me. I met her here entirely by accident. No word has passed between us which would suggest for a single moment that she looked upon this matter any differently!"

The Duchess listened to him steadily. At first there were signs of a coming storm. Like a skilful general, however, she abandoned her position and changed her tactics. She got up and walked to the window, produced a handkerchief from her pocket, and stood dabbing her eyes. She looked out over the Place VendÔme. Julien, who had not the least idea what to say, kept silent.

"Julien," she said at last, turning around, "this—this is a blow to me. If what you say is true, and of course it is, dear Anne's life is ruined. At present every one sympathizes with her. You know, Samuel Harbord, notwithstanding his enormous wealth—you have no idea, Julien, how horrid he was about the settlements—is very unpopular. There wasn't a soul except his own people who didn't thoroughly enjoy his position. Anne had run away to Paris, they all said, because she declined to give up her old sweetheart. You know what they will all say now? She came and you would have none of her! I ask you, Julien, as a man of the world, isn't that the view people are bound to take?"

"It is a very stupid view," Julien declared. "Anne cares no more for me than for any other man. She isn't that sort. Even if I were in a position to marry any one, I am quite sure that she would refuse me."

The Duchess began to see her way. She tried, however, to banish the look of relief from her face.

"My dear Julien," she said very gently, "you men, however well you mean, sometimes make such mistakes. I want to show you what I am sure you will see to be your duty. Things, of course, can never be as we had once hoped. On the other hand, I am a mother, Julien, and I want to see my daughters happy. We are very, very poor, but a little privation is good for all of us. The Duke will settle two thousand a year upon Anne, and I am quite sure that you can earn money with that wonderful pen of yours, and then, of course, there is your own small income."

"Anne doesn't want to marry me, and," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "I don't want to marry Anne. You forget that I am an outcast from life. I have to start things all over again. What should I do with a wife who has been used to the sort of life Anne has always led?"

"Dear Julien," the Duchess repeated, "I want to show you your duty. If you do not marry Anne, every one in London will say that she came to you and you refused her. It is your duty at least to give her the opportunity. It is unfortunate that she came here, perhaps, but we have finished with all that. She is here, every one knows that she is here, and you have been seen together."

Julien rose from his chair and walked up and down the room.

"I haven't talked very much with Anne," he said, pausing after a while, "but it seems to me that she is making a bid for liberty. She is an independent sort of girl, you know, after all, although she was very well content, up to a certain point, to take things as they came. I don't believe for a moment that she would marry me."

"At least," the Duchess persisted, "do your duty and ask her. If necessary, even let people know that you have asked her. It is your duty, Julien."

Julien hesitated no longer.

"Very well," he decided, "since you put it like that I will ask Anne, but I warn you, I think she will refuse me."

"She will do nothing of the sort," the Duchess declared; "but oh! Julien, it would make me so happy if you would take me to her, if I could have just a few minutes' talk with her first, before you said anything serious."

Julien smiled.

"Dear Duchess, I think not. I will go to see Anne alone. I will ask her to marry me in my own way. I will tell her that you are here, and whether she consents to marry me or not, I will bring her to see you. But my offer shall be made before you and she meet."

"You are a little hard, dear Julien," the Duchess murmured, "but let it be so. Only remember that the poor dear child may be feeling very sensitive—she must know that she has placed herself so completely in your power. Be nice to her, Julien."

The Duchess offered him a tentative but somewhat artificial embrace, which Julien with great skill evaded.

"We shall see," he remarked, "what happens. I shall find you here, I suppose?"

The Duchess nodded.

"I have traveled all night," she said, half closing her eyes. "Directly I saw that it was my duty, I came here without waiting a single second. I shall lie down and rest and hope, Julien, until I see you both. I shall hope and pray that you will bring Anne here to luncheon with me and that we shall have a little family gathering."

Anne was seated before the wide-open window in the little back room leading from Mademoiselle Rignaut's workshop. A sewing-machine was on the table in the middle of the apartment, the floor was strewn with fragments of material. Anne, in a perfectly plain black gown, similar to those worn by the other young ladies of the establishment, was making bows. She looked at Julien, as he entered, in blank amazement. Then a shadow of annoyance crossed her face.

"My dear Julien," she exclaimed, "fancy letting you climb these four flights of stairs! Besides, these are my working hours. I am not receiving visitors."

"Rubbish!" Julien interposed. "There's surely no need for you to pose as a seamstress?"

She laughed.

"Don't be foolish! Why not a seamstress? I am absolutely determined to do work of some sort. I am tired of living on other people and other people's efforts. Until I hear from Madame Christophor, or find another post, I am doing what I am fit for here. Don't make me any more annoyed than I am at present. I am cross enough with Janette because she will make me sit in here instead of with the other girls."

He came across the room and stood by her side before the window. The slight haze of the midsummer morning rested over the city with its tangled mass of roofs and chimneys, its tall white buildings with funny little verandas, the sweep of boulevards and statelier buildings in the distance. She looked up and followed his eyes.

"Don't you like my view?" she asked. "One misses the roar of London. Do you notice how much shriller and less persistent all the noises are? Yet it has its own inspiration, hasn't it?"

"Without a doubt," Julien answered. "Of course, you can guess what I came for?"

"If it were to ask me to lunch," she said, composedly threading her needle, "I am sorry, but I can't come. I have to make twenty-five of these bows and I am rather slow at it."

"Luncheon might have followed as an after-thought," he replied. "My real mission was to suggest that you should marry me."

Lady Anne's fingers paused for a moment in the air. She sat quite still. Her eyes were half closed. There was a curious little quiver at her heart, a little throb in her ears. On the whole, however, she kept her self-control marvelously.

"Whatever put that into your head?" she inquired, going on with her work.

He hesitated. It was in his mind to tell her of that evening at Clonarty, to speak of it, to recall that one wave of emotion on which, indeed, they might have floated into a completer understanding. He looked at her steadfastly. She was very graceful, very good to look upon. She sat upright in her poor cane chair, bending over her foolish little task. But he missed any inspiration which might have guided his tongue. She looked so thoroughly self-possessed, so splendidly superior to circumstances.

"Isn't it natural?" he asked. "You and I were always good friends. We have come together here and we are both a little lonely. I have never known any one else in the world, Anne," he continued, "with whom I have been able to think of marriage with more—more content. One might live quite a pleasant life here. We should not be paupers. At any rate, there would be no reason for you to sit in this stuffy room making bows, or to go and write Madame Christophor's letters."

"Is that all?"

Again he was tempted. For a single moment she had raised her eyes and he had fancied that in that swift upward glance he had seen the light of an almost eager questioning, an almost pathetic search. He bent towards her, but she refused obstinately to look at him again.

"Dear Anne," he said, "I have always been fond of you."

Again her fingers were idle. An idea seemed to have occurred to her.
She asked him a question.

"How long is it since you have seen my mother?"

He did not at once reply. She raised her head and looked at him. Then she knew the truth. She set her teeth and fought. A little sob was strangled in her throat.

"I left your mother a few minutes ago," he told her. "She arrived in
Paris this morning and sent for me."

Lady Anne worked for a time in silence. Then she laid the bow, which she had finished, upon the table, and leaned back in her chair, clasping her right knee with her hands.

"You really are the queerest person, Julien," she declared. "How you were ever a success as a diplomatist I can't imagine! You came in with the air of one charged with a high and holy mission. It was so obvious and yet for a moment it puzzled me. How I would love to have been with you this morning—with you and my mother, I mean—somewhere behind a curtain! Never mind, you've done the really right and honorable thing—you have given me my chance. I am very grateful, Julien."

She looked frankly enough into his face now and laughed. Julien remained silent.

"Can't you see, both of you," Anne went on, "you silly people, that something quite alien to us and our set has found its way into my life—a sort of middle-class complaint—Heaven knows what you would call it!—but it came just in time to place me in a most awkward position. I still haven't any doubt that marriage is a very respectable and desirable institution, but to me the idea of it as a matter of convenience has suddenly become—well, a little worse than the thing which we all shudder at so righteously when we pass along the streets of Paris. Of course, I know," she added, "that's a shocking point of view. My mother would hold, and you, too, that a legalized sale is no sale at all, that matrimony is a perfectly hallowed institution, a perfectly moral state, and all the rest of it. You see, I very nearly admitted it myself—I very nearly sold myself!"

She shuddered. Then she rose to her feet, straight and splendid, with all the grace of her beautiful young womanhood.

"Men don't think just as we do about this," she continued. "You are all much too Oriental. But a woman has at least a right to keep what she doesn't choose to sell, even if in the end she chooses to give it."

Julien moved a step nearer to her.

"Anne," he said, "supposing one cared?"

Every fibre of her body was set in an effort of resistance. The mocking laugh rose readily enough to her lips, the words were crushed back in her throat. Only the faintest shadow shone for a moment in her eyes.

"Ah, Julien," she murmured lightly, "if one cared! But does that really come, I wonder? Not to such men as you. Not often, I am afraid, to such women as I."

The door was suddenly opened. Little Mademoiselle Rignaut was covered with confusion.

"But, miladi," she exclaimed, "a thousand pardons—"

"Janette," Anne interrupted, "if I hear that once more I leave—I seek another situation."

"But, mademoiselle, then," Mademoiselle Rignaut corrected, "a thousand pardons indeed! I had no idea—"

"My dear Janette," Lady Anne protested, "why do you apologize for entering your own workshop? It is foolish, this. I go now, dear Julien, to put on my hat. You shall drive me to where my mother is staying—the Ritz, I suppose? Afterwards you shall leave us. Wait in the street below. I shall be less than two minutes."

Mademoiselle Rignaut was still apologetic as she conducted Julien down the narrow stairs.

"But indeed," she declared, "there never was a young lady so strange, with such charming manners, so sweet, as dear Miladi Anne. All the time she smiles, inconveniences are nothing, one would imagine that she were happy. And yet at night—"

"At night what?" Julien asked.

Mademoiselle shook her head.

"Miladi Anne is not quite so cheerful as she seems. At night I fancy that she does not sleep too well. One hears her, and, alas! Monsieur Sir Julien, last night I heard her sobbing quietly."

"Lady Anne sobbing?" Julien exclaimed. "It seems impossible."

"Indeed, but women are strange!" Mademoiselle Rignaut sighed.