“Perhaps if I snuff the candle you will be better able to read.” She snuffed the candle out.
“Thank you,” said Hamilton, vainly attempting to repress a laugh; “I have no doubt I shall be better able to read now. Perhaps you have done this on purpose to make me feel that I ought to have snuffed the candle myself.”
“Oh, no, indeed,” said Hildegarde, joining half unwillingly in the laughter, “I happened to overhear something which Crescenz said, and then I looked up and——”
Crescenz rose from her chair, looked at them for a moment, and then, in a voice of ill-suppressed emotion, stammered out: “They—they—are laughing at me—at us!”
“No, oh no!” cried Hildegarde, eagerly, taking up the extinguished candle to light it. “No, indeed, Mr. Hamilton is laughing because I have snuffed out the candle, and I am laughing I don’t know what for,” she added with a sigh. “I am sure I never felt less inclined to be merry in my life.”
Crescenz sat down again, but followed her sister with her eyes as she turned to her place. Major Stultz in vain talked of his yellow sofa and six chairs, and asked her whether he should buy a long or a round table for her drawing-room; or proposed purchasing both, if she wished it. She heard him not, for Hildegarde was again beside Hamilton, and he was leaning on the arm of his chair, and looking at her as Crescenz had never seen him look at anyone before.
“Crescenz! you do not hear a word I am saying,” exclaimed Major Stultz at length. “Not one word! If you wish it, we can return to the other table, and then you can watch your sister playing with the snuffers and the wick of the candle at your leisure.”
Crescenz did not answer.
“Perhaps,” he continued, yielding to an unconquerable feeling of jealousy, “perhaps I have mistaken the object of your attention—I do believe you are admiring the bold black eyes of that long-legged English boy!”
Crescenz blushed deeply and turned away.