“I might have guessed what your answer would have been,” cried Hildegarde, petulantly. “You store up every hasty word to bring forward just when I wish it forgotten! If you will not tell me, I may as well wish you good-night.” She took up the candle and walked to the door.
“Good-night,” said Hamilton, approaching as if to close it after her, and making no attempt whatever to detain her.
“As you feared to shock me,” said Hildegarde, stopping suddenly, “I suppose I have done something very wrong?” and she looked up inquiringly.
“I really do not know,” replied Hamilton, stiffly.
“You—you most disagreeable person—” she began angrily, but seeing that Hamilton was endeavouring to suppress a smile, she exclaimed: “Well, if this is not affecting superiority, I do not understand you at all!—What must I say to you? I was wrong to defend Oscar, he is unfortunately a—a—great reprobate, I suppose, but he is my cousin, my only cousin, and I admire him more than anyone I have ever seen.”
“You had better tell him so,” said Hamilton, ironically.
“It is not necessary, he is perfectly aware of his advantages,” she replied in the same tone.
“So I perceived at the races to-day.”
“That he did not please you I saw at once,” said Hildegarde, playing with the lock of the door. “You looked so unfriendly and haughty that the Hoffmanns could hardly believe all I said in your praise.”
“So you undertook my defence,” said Hamilton quickly.