Ursula had dried her eyes.
“My dear,” she said, “if he promised to marry you, perhaps he will.”
“Oh no, he won’t. I know now, and understand things different. He’s a gentleman. He’d marry me if he was not.”
“For I’m sure he loved me,” she added, softly.
Ursula was trembling from head to foot. Shielded and sheltered through all her simple girlhood, she had never come into contact, whether by actual experience or in literature, with any such vision of shame as this. She compared her own happy, unshadowed life with the struggle of the girl before her. And, full of compassion, she thanked God for the difference. For, to the very backbone which held her erect, she was womanly and pure.
She had forgotten all about the pressing needs of her toilet, but the dress-maker had not. Adeline caught up the frock, and began silently, sullenly sewing.
“If I could but do anything for you,” said Ursula, meditatively.
“You can’t. Only don’t gibe at me. Gibe at the men of your own class. This one, they tell me, is going to be married. I dare say you’d marry him if you could.”
“Never! never!” said Ursula, with quiet passion.
“Well, I don’t care whom he marries. It won’t be me. I’ll tell you how I know for certain. You seem to be good, you do, and you mean well. It’s not me alone he’s ruined. Do you know”—she laid down her work on her lap—“I believe it was he who brought us all together the other night. I believe he is Romeo de Lieven.”