To so wide a proposition as this madame was not prepared to give an unconditional assent; she therefore shrugged her shoulders, and once again looked like her brother.

“Ah!” she said.  “Julie is a happy woman now.  Seven—­thousand—­pounds a year!  One does not know how to believe it; does one?”

“I never heard the amount of her income,” said Harry.

“It is all that,” said the Franco-Pole, energetically; “every franc of it, beside the house!  I know it.  She told me herself.  Yes.  What woman would risk that, you know; and his life, you may say, as good as gone?  Of course they were lies.”

“I don’t think you understand her, Madame Gordeloup.”

“Oh, yes; I know her, so well.  And love her—­oh, Mr. Clavering, I love her so dearly!  Is she not charming?  So beautiful, you know, and grand.  Such a will, too!  That is what I like in a woman.  Such a courage!  She never flinched in those horrid days, never.  And when he called her—­you know what—­she only looked at him, just looked at him, miserable object.  Oh, it was beautiful!” And Madame Gordeloup, rising in her energy from her seat for the purpose, strove to throw upon Harry such another glance as the injured, insulted wife had thrown upon her foul-tongued, dying lord.

“She will marry,” said Madame Gordeloup, changing her tone with a suddenness that made Harry start; “yes, she will marry, of course.  Your English widows always marry if they have money.  They are wrong, and she will be wrong; but she will marry.”

“I do not know how that may be,” said Harry, looking foolish.

“I tell you I know she will marry, Mr. Clavering; I told Edouard so yesterday.  He merely smiled.  It would hardly do for him, she has so much will.  Edouard has a will also.”

“All men have, I suppose.”

“Ah, yes; but there is a difference.  A sum of money down, if a man is to marry, is better than a widow’s dower.  If she dies, you know, he looks so foolish.  And she is grand and will want to spend everything.  Is she much older than you, Mr. Clavering?  Of course I know Julie’s age, though perhaps you do not.  What will you give me to tell?” And the woman leered at him with a smile which made Harry think that she was almost more than mortal.  He found himself quite unable to cope with her in conversation, and soon after this got up to take his leave.  “You will come again,” she said.  “Do.  I like you so much.  And when Julie is in town, we shall be able to see her together, and I will be your friend.  Believe me.”

Harry was very far from believing her, and did not in the least require her friendship.  Her friendship, indeed!  How could any decent English man or woman wish for the friendship of such a creature as that?  It was thus that he thought of her as he walked away from Mount Street, making heavy accusations, within his own breast, against Lady Ongar as he did so.  Julia!  He repeated the name over to himself a