Hamilton laughed.
“Perhaps you are already aware of it?” asked Zedwitz, growing very red.
“No, indeed,” replied Hamilton, trying to look serious, “I am only amused at your sister’s strong imagination; were she, however, to see us together, and hear us speak, she would soon think differently.”
“You forget that my sister was at Seon, and had opportunities of making observations.”
“But she is not aware how desperately we quarrel; she does not know——”
“I have told her all that, and she insists that Hildegarde likes you without being herself conscious of it.”
“But I assure you she has told me more than once that she hates me.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Zedwitz, dryly, and immediately after he changed the subject.
This conversation, notwithstanding the little impression it had apparently made on Hamilton, took complete possession of his thoughts, as he walked home late in the evening. However incredulous he might at first have felt, the idea was too flattering to his vanity to be lightly abandoned; and no sooner had he admitted the possibility, than it became probability: nay, almost certainty. It is extraordinary what a revolution these reflections made in his feelings. Hildegarde was so remarkably handsome that he had been compelled to admire her person; her odd decided manners had always amused him; but now that he imagined himself so much the object of her preference as to cause her to refuse the addresses of Zedwitz, his admiration began to verge towards love; and the manners which had before caused him amusement became the subject of deep interest, as affording a key to the mind which, with secret satisfaction, he felt he had always considered of no common stamp. Pleased with himself, and unconsciously prepared to be more than pleased with the subject of his thoughts, he bounded up stairs, rang the bell, and was admitted by Hildegarde herself.
“Mr. Hamilton,” she said, with some embarrassment, “I wish to speak to you alone for a few minutes, if you are at leisure.”