Why did Hamilton bend over his plate? and why did the colour mount to his temples as the door closed? Did he begin to entertain doubts of his indifference, or did he dread an explanation with Hildegarde? He scarcely knew himself, but he felt uncomfortable, and gave himself a quantity of trouble to prevent his companion from observing it.
The distant roll of carriages had already informed them that the opera was over; but it was not until the sound of voices in the usually quiet street had made the immediate return of her father, sister, and Major Stultz probable, that Hildegarde summoned courage to say, in a very low voice, and without looking up, “What must you think of me——”
“Do you wish to know what I think of you?” asked Hamilton, with affected negligence.
“Yes; but do not again judge too harshly.”
“I think,” he said, facing her deliberately, “I think you are very beautiful.”
“Pshaw!” cried Hildegarde, pushing back her chair angrily, “I expected a very different answer.”
“Something different,” said Hamilton, in the same tone. “Something about distraction and committing crimes, perhaps.”
“What occurred to-day is no subject for a jest,” she said seriously.
“So I thought a few hours ago, also,” said Hamilton; “but now the whole affair appears to me rather amusing than otherwise. Perhaps, however, your cousin alone is privileged to speak to you in this manner, in which case you must pardon me for endeavouring to recollect what he said; but it was so well received that——”
“It was not well received!” cried Hildegarde, interrupting him. “You know it was not; and I am ready,” she added, after a pause, “ready to repeat to you every word of our conversation.”