She rose at once.
“I have a headache,” she said coldly. “Sit down.”
“Mabel!” said Augusta precipitately, “should you think me dishonourable if I married the Duke of Bosworth?”
“If I did would it make any difference?”
“No; but I’d rather you didn’t.”
Mabel turned her head away and looked into the logs burning on the hearth.
“Until you yourself told me that it was over,” pursued Augusta, “I gave him no sort of encouragement; but as you cannot marry him yourself, I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”
“No; I suppose there is no reason why you shouldn’t. Only it is something I couldn’t do myself.”
“You don’t know whether you could or not. Nobody knows what abstract sentiments he’ll sacrifice when he wants a thing badly. If somebody suddenly died and left you a fortune, wouldn’t you take him from me if you could?”
“Yes, I would.”