“Indeed!” cried Hamilton. “Then you have no wish to renew the—the——”
“None whatever,” replied Hildegarde, smiling.
“But if you think so highly of him,” persisted Hamilton, “surely you must like him!”
“Like him!” she repeated, “why, have I not told you that I like him exceedingly?”
“Something to that purport, certainly,” said Hamilton; “you are altogether inexplicable, and I dare not ask an explanation.”
“You have no right,” said Hildegarde; “what occurred before yesterday does not come under your cognisance.”
“I am completely at fault,” said Hamilton, in a low voice, as if reasoning with himself. “Zedwitz told me that you had said you liked him as an acquaintance, but nothing more. This, I know, is not the case; therefore there must be some misunderstanding—he suspected a prior attachment, but that seemed to me improbable.”
“Rather say impossible,” cried Hildegarde, laughing, “for the object of it must have been either Major Stultz—or you! ha, ha, ha!”
Hamilton did not laugh with her, and another long pause ensued—his jealousy, or, as he to himself termed it, his curiosity, prompted him to make another effort, and he again began: “I told Zedwitz he ought not to resign all hope; that probably the fear of opposition on the part of his family had influenced you.” He stopped, for Hildegarde bit her lip, and seemed agitated. She stood up—sat down—stood up again—and after a moment’s hesitation, said, “I do not know whether I had better tell you all or nothing.”
“Tell me all,” cried Hamilton, eagerly; “no one can feel more interested than I do, in everything that concerns you.”