“I should like to see her,” said Hamilton, stopping suddenly.
“But if you go back you will have to swallow the soup as a peace-offering,” said Madame Berger.
“Do you think so? Zedwitz, will you assist Madame Berger into the carriage?—I must return to Hildegarde; but I promise not to detain you more than a minute.” He rushed up the stairs as he spoke, entered without noise by means of his skeleton key, and, passing through his bedroom, was able to ascertain the partial truth of Madame Berger’s assertion. Hildegarde was walking up and down the room with flushed cheeks, talking angrily to herself, and pushing everything that came in her way. “What a fool—what an egregious fool I was—to make a fire with my own hands to warm that soup!” She kicked the leg of the table as she spoke, making the plates and spoons clatter. “If ever I warm soup for him again I hope, yes, I hope, I may burn my arm as I have done this time.” She raised her sleeve and looked frowningly at the suffering limb, which in fact was extremely red and covered with blisters. While she endeavoured with her handkerchief to remove the long streaks of smut which still bore testimony to the origin of the mischief, Hamilton advanced; and, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, seized her hand, and held it firmly, while he gulped down the soup as fast as he was able. It was, as Madame Berger had said, very hot; and when he had deposited the bowl on the plate, tears actually stood in his eyes from the excess of his exertions.
“I feel quite warm now,” he said, turning to Hildegarde, who stood beside him in great confusion, fearing that she had been overheard, and, as usual, ashamed of her violence, now that it was over. She had covered her arm, and was endeavouring to release her hand, as he added, “You were quite right when you said it was too late for skating to-day. I shall merely drive out for half-an-hour, by way of a beginning. This sacrifice I make to your better judgment.”
Hildegarde looked up; her lips were no longer blue, and her eyes had regained their usual serenity. “To-morrow,” she observed, with evident satisfaction, “to-morrow you can go out directly after dinner, when the sun is shining.”
“Exactly; pray don’t forget to bespeak a little sunshine for me,” he cried, laughing, as he ran out of the room.
“Where is my little tormentor?” he asked, on perceiving that the carriage was unoccupied.
“How could you expect her to wait for you?” said Zedwitz, gravely. “She has had the good sense to go home.”
“I am glad of it,” cried Hamilton, springing gayly into the carriage, “very glad.”
“It is confoundedly cold,” said Zedwitz, impatiently throwing the folds of his cloak over his shoulder. “I must say your minute was a long one.”