“Una!”
She turned her head, and looked at her questioningly, with a weary, uninterested gaze.
“Una, he—Stephen has told me. Oh, my darling, I hope you will be happy!”
Una smiled—a cold, mechanical smile.
“Happy? Yes, he says I shall be happy. Do you think,” and she looked calmly at the anxious, nervous face, “do you think I shall be happy?”
Mrs. Davenant drew her toward her.
“My dear, you frighten me. You—you are so—so strange and cold. Cold! Your hands are like ice. Oh, Una, do you know what it means—this that you are going to do? It is not too late. Think, Una. You know how I love you, dear. That I would give all the world to call you—what you are, my heart of hearts—my own daughter. But, oh, Una! if you think, if you are not quite sure that you will be happy——”
Una looked straight at the fire.
“He says so,” she said, in the same hard, cold voice; “he is clever and wise. He is your son; why do you doubt him?”
Mrs. Davenant shivered.