“No, no—their mother was noble—she was a Raimund, had no fortune, and married a nobody, when she was old enough to have been wiser; her relations never forgave her, but after her death they offered to educate these two girls for governesses; their father would not part with them; but when he afterwards married a rich goldsmith’s daughter, she immediately insisted on his sending them to school.”
“I believe I do remember something of this—most probably a sister of our friend Count Raimund, Agnes?”
“Mademoiselle’s name is Agnes,” said Hamilton, quickly. “Then, perhaps, you are the person who was so kind as to write me the letter which—” and he searched in his pocket for A. Z.’s letter.
“What!—what is that about a letter?” asked the old lady, hastily.
“Some mistake, mamma.”
“But he says you wrote to him, my dear.”
“No, mamma, I did not write to him; but I think it extremely probable that papa did. I know he wrote lately to an Englishman in Munich. He will be glad to see you, I am sure,” she added, turning to Hamilton; “for although he speaks English very tolerably, he finds writing it extremely difficult; and the little note in question occupied him nearly an hour. When you have breakfasted, I can go with you to his room.”
Hamilton pushed away his coffee-cup, and stood up directly.
“Agnes, Agnes!” cried her mother gravely, “you know your father is sweating!”
“Yes, mamma, I know; but papa wishes very much to see his English correspondent. You have, probably, just returned from Graefenberg?” she said, addressing Hamilton. “Have you no letter from Preissnitz?”