"Is she still alone--or is there any relation who looks after her?"

"Relation? No. She detests them all."

"Except you?"

Delafield raised his shoulders, without an answering smile. "Yes, she is
good enough to except me. You're one of her trustees, aren't you?"

"At present, the only one. But while I have been in Persia the lawyers
have done all that was necessary. Lady Henry herself never writes a
letter she can help. I really have heard next to nothing about her for
more than a year. This morning I arrived from Paris--sent round to ask
if she would be at home--and here I am."

"Ah!" said Delafield, looking down. "Well, there is a lady who has been
with her, now, for more than two years--"

"Ah, yes, yes, I remember. Old Lady Seathwaite told me--last year.
Mademoiselle Le Breton--isn't that her name? What--she reads to her, and
writes letters for her--that kind of thing?"

"Yes--that kind of thing," said the other, after a moment's hesitation.
"Wasn't that a spot of rain? Shall I charge these gentry?"

And he led the way through the line of footmen, which, however, was not
of the usual Mayfair density. For the party within was not a "crush."
The hostess who had collected it was of opinion that the chief object of
your house is not to entice the mob, but to keep it out. The two men
mounted the stairs together.