Hamilton crushed the card which he held in his hand, looked vexed, but still did not attempt to speak.
“It is hard,” continued Hildegarde, more quietly, though her cheeks flushed deeply, “it is hard to judge a young man like Oscar without knowing the temptations to which he has been subjected.”
Hamilton still remained silent; he began once more to build a tower with the cards.
“Do you not hear me?” she asked, impatiently.
“I am listening most attentively.”
“Then why don’t you say something?”
“Because a reply would only provoke another taunt on your part, and can answer no purpose whatever?”
“I see—you think I have been hasty—I did not mean it—I am sorry if I have offended you.”
Hamilton looked up and smiled, and Hildegarde continued—“We have so few relations—so very few. Oscar is our only cousin. I cannot tell you how I felt to-day when he called me Hildegarde, and told me to consider him a brother. You will think me romantic when I assure you that I experienced an instantaneous prepossession in his favour, or rather a sort of affection which I thought it quite impossible to feel for a stranger! I suppose the recollection of my mother, faint though it be, partly caused this feeling. At all events, I have found it impossible not to think him the most amusing, clever—in short, the most fascinating person I ever met.”
“Oh dear! How I should like to know him!” exclaimed Crescenz.