“Has Aileen any love affairs yet?” said the Duchess, abruptly, raising her face to his.

Lord Lackington looked surprised.

“Not that I know of.  However, I dare say they wouldn’t tell me.  I’m a sieve, I know.  Have you heard of any?  Tell me.”  He stooped to her with roguish eagerness.  “I like to steal a march on Blanche.”

So he knew nothing—­while half their world was talking!  It was very characteristic, however.  Except for his own hobbies, artistic, medical, or military, Lord Lackington had walked through life as a Johnny Head-in-Air, from his youth till now.  His children had not trusted him with their secrets, and he had never discovered them for himself.

“Is there any likeness between Julie and Aileen?” whispered the Duchess.

Lord Lackington started.  Both turned their eyes towards Julie, as she stood some ten yards away from them, in front of a refined and mysterious profile of the cinque-cento—­some lady, perhaps, of the d’Este or Sforza families, attributed to Ambrogio da Predis.  In her soft, black dress, delicately folded and draped to hide her excessive thinness, her small toque fitting closely over her wealth of hair, her only ornaments a long and slender chain set with uncut jewels which Lord Lackington had brought her the day before, and a bunch of violets which the Duchess had just slipped into her belt, she was as rare and delicate as the picture.  But she turned her face towards them, and Lord Lackington made a sudden exclamation.

“No!  Good Heavens, no!  Aileen was a dancing-sprite when I saw her last, and this poor girl!—­Duchess, why does she look like that?  So sad, so bloodless!”

He turned upon her impetuously, his face frowning and disturbed.

The Duchess sighed.

“You and I have just got to do all we can for her,” she said, relieved to see that Julie had wandered farther away, as though it pleased her to be left to herself.

“But I would do anything—­everything!” cried Lord Lackington.  “Of course, none of us can undo the past.  But I offered yesterday to make full provision for her.  She has refused.  She has the most Quixotic notions, poor child!”

“No, let her earn her own living yet awhile.  It will do her good.  But—­shall I tell you secrets?” The Duchess looked at him, knitting her small brows.

“Tell me what I ought to know—­no more,” he said, gravely, with a dignity contrasting oddly with his school-boy curiosity in the matter of little Aileen’s lover.

The Duchess hesitated.  Just in front of her was a picture of the Venetian school representing St. George, Princess Saba, and the dragon.  The princess, a long and slender victim, with bowed head and fettered hands, reminded her of Julie.  The dragon—­perfidious, encroaching wretch!—­he was easy enough of interpretation.  But from the blue distance, thank Heaven! spurs the champion.  Oh, ye heavenly powers, give him wings and strength!  “St. George—­St. George to the rescue!”