Sylvia turned to the bureau and took a fresh handkerchief from the drawer.  She sprinkled it with some toilet water that was on the dressing-table, and gave it to Rose.  “Here is a clean handkerchief,” she said, “and I’ve put some of your perfumery on it.  Give me the other.”

Rose took the sweet-smelling square of linen and tried to smile again.  “I just got nervous,” she said.

“Set down here in this chair,” said Sylvia, “and I’ll draw up the little table, and I want you to eat your supper.  I’ve brought up something real nice for you.”

“Thank you, Aunt Sylvia; you’re a dear,” said Rose, pitifully, “but—­I don’t think I can eat anything.”  In spite of herself the girl’s face quivered again and fresh tears welled into her eyes.  She passed her scented handkerchief over them.  “I am not a bit hungry,” she said, brokenly.

Sylvia drew a large, chintz-covered chair forward.  “Set right down in this chair,” she said, firmly.  And Rose slid weakly from the bed and sank into the chair.  She watched, with a sort of dull gratitude, while Sylvia spread a little table with a towel and set out the tray.

“There,” said she.  “Here is some cream toast and some of those new pease, and a little chop, spring lamb, and a cup of tea.  Now you just eat every mite of it, and then I’ve got a saucer of strawberries and cream for you to top off with.”

Rose looked hopelessly at the dainty fare.  Then she looked at Sylvia.  The impulse to tell another woman her trouble got the better of her.  If women had not other women in whom to confide, there are times when their natures would be too much for them.  “I heard some news this morning,” said she.  She attempted to make her voice exceedingly light and casual.

“What?”

“I heard about Mr. Allen’s engagement.”

“Engagement to who?”

“To—­Lucy.”

“Lucy!”

“Lucy Ayres.  She seems to be a very sweet girl.  She is very pretty.  I hope she will make him very happy.”  Rose’s voice trembled with sad hypocrisy.

“Who told you?” demanded Sylvia.

“She told me herself.”

“Did her mother hear it?”

“She did, but I think she did not understand.  Lucy spoke in French.  She talks French very well.  She studied with Miss Farrel, you know.  I think Lucy has done all in her power to fit herself to become a good wife for an educated man.”

“What did she tell you in French for?  Why didn’t she speak in English?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I know.  She did it so her mother wouldn’t hear, and say in English that she was telling an awful whopper.  Mr. Allen is no more engaged to Lucy Ayres than I am.”

Rose gazed at Sylvia with sudden eagerness.  “What makes you think so, Aunt Sylvia?”

“Nothing makes me think what I know.  Mr. Allen has never paid any attention to Lucy Ayres, beyond what he couldn’t help, and she’s made a mountain out of a mole-hill.  Lucy Ayres is man-crazy, that’s all.  You needn’t tell me.”