“I knew that,” cried Hamilton, pettishly. “Walburg always forgets the salt. Just taste it yourself, and you will be convinced that I cannot swallow it in its present state.”
“Let me try it,” cried Madame Berger; “I am an excellent judge of soup, have learned cookery, and all that sort of thing. Let me see,” said she, playing with the spoon exactly as Hamilton had done; “let me see; the smell is excellent, but the taste?—hum! might require a little more salt, perhaps, but—but still it is eatable. After a few spoonfuls one scarcely remarks the defect—and,” she continued, raising the bowl to her mouth, “and when one swallows it quickly, it is really quite refreshing this cold afternoon.”
Hamilton laughed; Hildegarde grew angry. “You may consider this a good joke, Lina,” she exclaimed, “but I find it very, very impertinent.”
“Now don’t get into a passion, my dear, about a miserable bowl of soup,” said Madame Berger, laughing maliciously; “it is really not worth while. Just go to the kitchen and bring another, and I promise not even to look at it.”
“But there is no more.”
“Ah, bah! as if I did not know that there was soup put aside for supper.”
“But not such soup as that,” cried Hildegarde, ingenuously; “mamma and Crescenz cooked it together, and I was not allowed to touch it for fear of its being spoiled.”
“What an opinion they must have of her cookery,” remarked Madame Berger, looking towards Hamilton.
“It is of no consequence,” he said, laughing; “I do not deserve any for having been so difficult to please.”
“I can bring you a cup of beef-tea—it is better than nothing,” said Hildegarde, leaving the room.