something familiar about them all, but to see them together made them
more than strange. Besides, the two she knew best were strange in
another way. Their habit was to be shabby, though neat; now, there was
no one on the terrace as beautifully dressed as this tall young woman
and the slim little girl. No, it couldn't be Madame Clifford and her
_petit choux_; and yet--and yet--as they came nearer, near enough for
Mademoiselle to recognise the man with them, she felt a horrid sensation
as if something which she called her heart were dropping out of her
bosom from sheer heaviness, leaving a vacuum.

[Illustration: They came nearer, near enough for Mademoiselle to
recognize the man with them. Page 124.

--_Rosemary._]

Hardly knowing what she did, she sprang up from her bench while they
were still far off, and began walking towards them. There was a queer,
singing noise in her head, and a feeling as if the skin were too tightly
stretched across her forehead. Still, she smiled, and winked her long
lashes to keep her eyes moist and soft.

The sun was on Evelyn Clifford's hair, burnishing it to a halo of gold
under the white hat. She looked radiantly beautiful, and as happy as if
her soul were singing a Christmas Carol. On the face of Hugh Egerton was
a look which no woman could mistake, least of all such a woman as Julie
de Lavalette; and it was not for her, never would be for her.

Now she knew why her expected guest had not come last night, or
remembered to send an excuse. Sick with jealousy and spite, she bowed as
she passed, trying to look eighteen, and tenderly reproachful.