“Oh, I dare say—but Hildegarde does not like good kind of persons.”
“Indeed! Pray, what kind of persons does she like then?”
“I don’t know whether she would like me to tell you or not.”
“And I don’t think you are obliged to ask her.”
“That is true; and, besides, it is no harm to like counts and barons better than other people!”
“Not at all. You rather said that you had a fancy of the same kind yourself, a few days ago.”
“Yes—I confess I should like to be a von, or a baroness, or a countess—but still there is a difference, for I am afraid of fine people, and Hildegarde likes them; I saw her getting books from Baroness Z—, and speaking to those proud Zedwitzes, the other day.”
“You think it, then, probable that she rather likes the attention of Count Zedwitz?”
“I—don’t—know. Hildegarde never speaks about such things when they concern herself, though she expects me to tell her everything! I saw that old Countess Zedwitz talking to her in the garden yesterday—the Countess looked very red, and kept nodding her head continually, and Hildegarde was very pale and haughty. I asked her what they had been speaking about, but she did not choose to tell me. I dare say it was something disagreeable.”
“That is not impossible,” said Hamilton, musingly; “in fact, rather probable. So you don’t know whether or not your sister likes Zedwitz?”