“Why, my dear fellow, considering that I had to drink all that hot water, and put Hildegarde in good humour again, I do not think I required much time.”
Zedwitz looked out of the window in silence. Hamilton leaned back and indulged in reflection of no disagreeable kind.
“Halt!” cried Zedwitz, suddenly, “we are at the lake.”
“Let us drive on. I don’t mean to skate to-day,” said Hamilton.
“You don’t mean to skate!” exclaimed Zedwitz.
“No. I promised Hildegarde merely to take an airing.”
“Why did you not tell me that before?”
“Because I feared being deprived of your agreeable society.”
“Halt!” cried Zedwitz, vehemently; and the carriage stopped. “I can tell you,” he said, kicking the door to assist Hans in opening it, “I can tell you that you have just received an extremely great proof of my friendship, for if there be any one thing I particularly detest in this world, it is driving about in a machine of this kind. I have an inveterate antipathy to a hackney coach.”
“I understand and share your feelings on this subject, generally speaking,” said Hamilton, amused at his violence; “but after being confined to one’s room for three or four weeks, the air enjoyed even through the windows of a hackney coach is agreeable and refreshing. Come, you may as well drive back with me.”