Una had folded her white arms on the dressing-table, and was looking into her face with dazed, heavy eyes. She muttered, hoarsely:
"Oh, this is too dreadful! What must he, what must you all think of me?"
Sylvie replied, with cruel frankness:
"Of course we all felt angry with you at first. We were disappointed, too, for we had all expected that he would marry sister Ida. There had been no engagement, but it was understood. But there, no one blames you or him, child. As I said before, Eliot could not have acted any other way. Noblesse oblige!"
As if forgetful of her presence, Una murmured, sadly:
"Mon Dieu! what shall I do?"
Sylvie answered, with more sense than she had displayed in making these cruel revelations:
"Do? Why, nothing but make the best of it, as Eliot and the rest of us have done. What has happened can not be altered now, so you must try to make him fond of you, so that he shall no longer regret taking you and losing Ida; and, for one thing, you ought not to be so extravagant. There is that pony he bought you. I know he could not afford it, really, for he is poor. And to-night I saw him bring you hot-house flowers. I am afraid he is running into debt just to pamper your whims. Now, if he had married Ida, it would have been different. She would have brought him a fortune, and could have paid her own bills."
Pale as she would ever be in her coffin, Una stood listening, her heart beating wildly.