“Not exactly; I believe I rather feel inclined to like her unpolished sincerity and straightforward vehemence; she really would be charming sometimes, if she were a little less quarrelsome.”
“I never found her quarrelsome,” said Zedwitz.
“Of course not, when you were enacting the part of adorer. That makes all the difference in the world! But what are you looking at?” asked Hamilton, seeing his companion stop short at the street-door. “I see nothing but a couple of officers lounging about the windows of that brazier’s shop opposite, which cannot contain anything particularly interesting, I should think.”
“Did you think they were admiring the coffee-pots and candlesticks?” asked Zedwitz. “That’s only a feint—I saw them looking up at the Rosenberg windows. It is a regular window parade, and they have been here nearly an hour; for I saw them in the street, as I entered the house. Let us cross over and see whether it be intended for Hildegarde, or Crescenz.”
They crossed the street, looked up, and saw Madame Berger sitting at the window, teaching Crescenz the promised pretty and strong purse-stitch. Although the latter appeared extremely intent on her work, she was evidently aware of what was passing in the street, for, as Zedwitz and Hamilton saluted, she bowed and blushed deeply.
“She, at least, has not yet learned to play unconscious,” observed Zedwitz, laughing; “Madame Berger can give her some instruction.”
“Do you know Madame Berger?” asked Hamilton.
“Of course; her husband is our physician. She is very pretty, and the greatest coquette in Christendom. I say, Raimund, what are you admiring in that shop?” said Zedwitz, stopping suddenly opposite the brazier’s and addressing one of the officers.
“The kitchen utensils, Max! I shall soon be obliged to purchase such things, and they have a kind of mysterious interest for me now.”
“You don’t mean to say that you are going to keep house—going to be married?”