"I never thought her very good style," some one who had not yet spoken now found courage to observe. "Her hair is so conspicuous. I never could understand why men seemed to admire her."
Mrs. Hartington raised her eye-brows. "Ah, the men!" she said, with serene scorn. "She is exactly the sort of girl who would appeal to men."
Mrs. Bobby felt that she had stayed as long as the limit of human endurance would permit. She rose to her feet, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliant, her voice rang out with crystal clearness. "It's hardly necessary for me to tell you," she said, "that Elizabeth Van Vorst is my most intimate friend. I love her very dearly and always shall. What her mother may have been is no affair of mine. But as for the men liking her"—she turned suddenly to Mrs. Hartington—"they do like her, Sibyl, and I think they show good taste. But if you mean the inference you seem to draw from that"—she paused and drew her breath quickly—"why, it's not very flattering, I think, to either men or women."
Mrs. Hartington gave a short little laugh. "My dear, I'm not drawing inferences one way or another. I merely stated a fact—complimentary, one might think, to your protegée. But you take things so seriously!"—She drew herself up with an air of some annoyance.
Mrs. Bobby's hands were tightly locked together inside her muff, she faced the group appealingly, her dark eyes wandering from one to the other. "Certainly, I take this thing seriously," she said, and there was a thrill of earnestness in her voice which moved more than one of her hearers. "It's no light matter for me to hear my friend spoken of—like this. I had Elizabeth Van Vorst with me all last winter, I feel as if I knew her like my own sister. I believe in her implicitly, no matter what any one may say. And if—if some of you"—instinctively her eyes fastened upon one or two whom she felt she was carrying with her—"if you would try to think the best, give her the benefit of the doubt, show that women can stand by one another—sometimes"—Her voice faltered and she broke off suddenly; there were tears glistening in her eyes as she held out her hand to her hostess. "Forgive me, Mary," she said. "I don't want to make a scene. But I can't help feeling strongly, and in this case I want every one to know exactly how I feel." And with that she left the room quickly before any one could speak, yet conscious as she went of a subtle wave of sympathy, which seemed to have made itself felt since her entrance.
"But it's useless—useless," she said sadly to her husband when she got home. "You might as well try to stop the course of a torrent as fight against the world's disapproval, when it is once roused against any poor, defenceless girl. And it isn't as if she were a great personage, or even as if she were still engaged to Julian! They've nothing to gain by standing by her. Yet there were one or two, I think, even of those women this afternoon, who felt with me. And at least"—she consoled herself a little—"at least they shall see that she has friends!"
"She'll need them, poor girl. The—the inquest—I've just heard—is coming off next week." He took up a paper knife and played with it, while he stole a furtive glance at his wife. "I think you had better—prepare Elizabeth," he said.
"Prepare her?" she repeated anxiously, as he paused.
"For some confoundedly unpleasant questions! Yes. Have you the strength to tell her?" His eyes questioned her anxiously. She was white to the lips, but she met them without flinching.
"One can always find strength."