“But you are young, Usk. You will get over it some day.”
“Possibly. I don’t feel like it just yet.”
“And a good girl—not one like Félicia——”
“Do you realise what Félicia is—how beautiful?—‘witchlike’ Princess Helene called it once, I remember. If she was looking at me, I should know it, though I was at the other end of the room and there was a crowd of people between,—I should feel it all over me, somehow. I couldn’t feel like that for the little Princess. I should like to make her happy, to take her away from her father and be kind to her, and see her begin to assert herself, and hear the funny things she says, but I couldn’t marry her on that, could I?”
“But pity is akin to love.”
“Mater, you’re weakening! You don’t mean to say you would wish it?”
“I don’t wish it, but—I’m beginning to be afraid it may be your duty.”
“And then it’s all up, isn’t it? What a thing it is to have a mother with a conscience!”
“Don’t talk so hardly, Usk. I can’t help thinking how we should feel if the poor girl died. You say you would not make it up with Félicia if you could; don’t you think you may be called to make this sacrifice?”
“It’s not a sacrifice altogether,” admitted Usk. “I really do like her, you know, but not in that way. The question is, is it fair to Princess Helene herself? No; certainly it would not be such a sacrifice as marrying one of the Jones girls,” he added with a laugh.