There followed a long silence. To urge on her friend measures which, if they did not altogether embroil her with her father, would be so much more advantageous to Maurice than to Dora, was impossible for Hilary. She had given her opinion of right and wrong, she could do no more; so the two girls sat together, looking at the fire, and each plunged in thought.
“What must I do?” at last sighed Dora. “I sometimes think of going into a convent; if I were only a Roman Catholic, I would.”
“My dear Dora!”
“Then,” continued the willful little penitent, “I think of telling Mr. Ufford that I love another, and so getting him to give me up. What do you think of that?”
“I do not know.”
“Hilary, would you, for all the riches and titles in the world, marry any other than Captain Hepburn? tell me.”
“Certainly not; I could not.”
“Nor will I than Maurice; our cases are exactly similar.”
“Not quite.”
“Yes, they are; we each love one, and that feeling makes it wrong to engage ourselves to another. There is no difference.”