Driven to bay, Una cried out, angrily: "Mrs. Van Zandt, you are talking the wildest nonsense. There was no forced marriage." "Then why did Eliot write such a letter to my husband? Come to my room, I will show it to you since you dispute my word." She caught Una's cold hand and half dragged her with her to her own room, where behind locked doors she gave the ignorant wife that fatal letter to read--fatal, because in Eliot's haste and worry he had stated only the bare facts of the case, and Una could not read between the lines the love that had filled his heart. She read it--the lovely, trusting girl--every word. She comprehended it in part. What she could not fathom Sylvie pointed out in clearest language, and when she had made her cruel meaning clear as day, she said, maliciously: "_Noblesse oblige_!" A gasp, and the girl's heavy eyes turned dumbly on her face--dumb with a bitter, humble humiliation. Sylvie said, half deprecatingly: "He did not love you at first, of course. How could he? When he came he asked me to give you a separate suite. I remonstrated, but he insisted. Of course I thought you would win him while I was away, and he would get over his foolishness." 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. "I am in his way. Oh, I wish I could die now!" she was thinking wildly. Sylvie, who had done all this out of sheer malice, gloated over the sight of her misery. To herself she said spitefully: "I am paying her back, the little pauper and nobody, for Ida's disappointment." Then suddenly she remembered that it was almost dinner-time. She said carelessly: