“It was, perhaps; but it has lost all worth within the last half-hour.”
“How do you mean?”
“I have seen you in the course of that time suspicious, rough, and what you would yourself call ungentlemanlike.”
“A pretty catalogue of faults for one short half-hour!” exclaimed Hamilton, biting his lips.
“You were the last person from whom I should have expected such treatment,” continued Hildegarde, while the tears started to her eyes, and her voice faltered, “the very last; and though I did get into a passion and give you a blow, it was not until you had hurt my wrist and provoked me beyond endurance.” She left the room and walked quickly down the passage.
“Stay,” cried Hamilton, following her, “stay, and hear my excuses.”
“Excuses! You have not even one to offer,” said Hildegarde, laying her hand on the lock of her door.
“Hear me at least,” he said eagerly. “I could not endure the thought of your being one jot less perfect than I had imagined you—that made me suspicious; the wish for proof made me rough; and though I cannot exactly justify my subsequent conduct, I plead in extenuation your own words, ‘the temptation was great.’”
Hildegarde’s dimples showed that a smile was with difficulty repressed, and Hamilton, taking courage, whispered hurriedly, “But one word more—hear my last and best excuse; it is, that I love you, deeply, passionately; but I need not tell you this, for you must have known it long, long ago. Hildegarde, say only that our perpetual quarrels have not made you absolutely hate me!”
Hildegarde, without uttering a word more, impetuously drew back her hand, sprang into her room, and locked the door. He waited for a minute or two, and then knocked, but received no answer. “Hildegarde,” he cried, reproachfully, “is this right—is this kind? Even if you dislike me, I have a right to expect an answer.”