“Oh, delightful!” cried Hildegarde, unconsciously moving her chair quite close to his, and leaning her hand confidentially on the arm of it; “delightful! that is exactly what I have long wished for; but,” she added hesitatingly, “but I fear you will expect me to—to—that is, not to——”
“What?” asked Hamilton, with a smile.
“Not to say what I think; or—or quarrel in future.”
“I made the offer unconditionally; we can fight our battles all the same, whenever you feel disposed.”
“If that be the case,” said Hildegarde, apparently much relieved, “I accept your offer, thankfully, and I hope I shall not give you much trouble.”
“Suppose you take your first lesson now,” said Hamilton. “As you merely require the pronunciation, let us begin with this book.” He laid it before her as he spoke, and they both turned towards the table. Hildegarde began at once to read, but with the most unintelligible foreign accent he had ever heard. He used his utmost effort to suppress his laughter, and did not venture to correct a single word. At the end of the page she looked up rather surprised, and encountered Hamilton’s eyes brilliant with suppressed mirth, while every other feature of his face was drawn into a forced seriousness of expression, forming altogether so extraordinary a distortion of countenance that she threw herself back in her chair and burst into a fit of laughter.
“Why don’t you laugh out, if you feel inclined?” she asked, as Hamilton half covered his face with his pocket-handkerchief.
“I really was afraid of offending you,” he replied.
“Oh! you never can offend me by laughing openly; it is only by speaking ironically or sneering that you can annoy me, and make me feel almost inclined at times to give you a box on the ear.”
“I give you leave to do so whenever you please,” said Hamilton; “but you will incur a penalty of which I shall most certainly take advantage.”