“Don’t make rash vows,” said Hamilton, coolly. “I dare say you will often speak to me in time—perhaps condescend to like me!”
“Never! I do not think there exists a more unamiable being in the world than you are! I now see you are determined not to leave our house, and only wonder I could have been such a fool as to expect you to act honourably.”
Hamilton turned to the window to hide his rising colour.
“You are vindictive, too,” she continued, “cruelly vindictive. It is because you dislike me; it is in order to make me unhappy that you trifle with my sister’s feelings. You do not, you cannot love her. She is not at all a person likely to interest a man such as you are!”
“When did you discover that?” asked Hamilton, turning suddenly round.
“No matter,” she replied, moving towards the door, somewhat surprised at the effect her words had produced on him. “No matter; I now see that these conferences and quarrels are worse than useless, and——”
“I agree with you,” said Hamilton, quickly, “and am most willing to sign a treaty of peace, on reasonable terms. Suppose I promise never by word or deed to disparage Major Stultz in future, and totally to abstain from all further attentions to you sister?”
“That—is—better—than—nothing,” said Hildegarde, slowly, “and as I am acting for the benefit of another, I ought not to refuse a compromise. If you promise,” she added, hesitatingly, “I—I think I may trust you.”
“And are you satisfied without my leaving the house?”
“I suppose I must be,” she replied, stooping to raise the chair she had thrown down; Hamilton moved it from her, and leaning on the back of it, asked if he might not now hope, in case he conscientiously performed his promises, that she would in future be at least commonly civil to him.