“A month ago I should have agreed with you,” she said. “Your ideas, Alex, are always splendid, and, usually, no one is more willing to adopt them than I. But theories sometimes collide with facts. I am going to marry the Duke of Bosworth.”
They rose.
“I hope you’ll scratch each other’s eyes out!” said Mrs. Burr.
“You married for money,” retorted Augusta.
“I did, and my reasons were good ones, as you know. Moreover, I married a man, and an American. If I hadn’t liked him, and if he’d looked as if he’d been boiled for soup, I wouldn’t have looked at him if he’d owned Colorado. Latimer’s wings are not sprouting, and he doesn’t take kindly to the idea of being reformed, but I don’t regret having married him—not for a minute. You will. Maybe you won’t though.”
Miss Maitland had fastened her coat. She gave her muff a little shake.
“Good-bye, Augusta,” she said icily. “It is too bad that you inherited nothing from your father but his iron will.”
And without shaking hands they went out.
CHAPTER XIV.
But although Augusta had maintained an attitude of stiff defiance, she was by no means pleased with herself. She rang for her maid, dressed for the street, and a few moments later was on her way to Murray Hill. When she reached the Creighton’s she went directly up to Mabel’s room, and, after a hasty tap, entered. Mabel was lying full-length on the divan among her rainbow pillows, a silver bottle of smelling-salts at her nose.