“It was unpardonable—inexcusable his doing so,” cried Hamilton, “for he thought you were alone, and took advantage of finding you unprotected.”
“Most men take advantage of finding us unprotected. After the events of to-day I may say all men do so,” replied Hildegarde, with so much reproachful meaning in her glance that Hamilton rose from his seat and began to perambulate the room, occasionally stopping to lean on the stove, until her father’s voice and approaching steps made him suddenly move forward towards her, as if he expected her to speak again. She remained, however, silent and motionless; and at length, overcome by a mixture of anxiety and curiosity, and with an ineffectual effort to appear indifferent, he said quickly, “I thought you were going to tell me what you said that could have given your cousin an excuse for producing a dagger.”
“You did not choose to hear when I was willing to tell you; and now——”
Here Madame Rosenberg entered the room, and Hildegarde rose, saying, “that her head ached intolerably, and she would now go to bed.”
“Good-night!” said Hamilton. “I hope your headache will be cured by a long sleep, and that you will be quite well when we meet again.”
“Thank you; before that time I shall most probably have altogether forgotten it,” said Hildegarde.
That means, thought Hamilton, she will not pour out my coffee to-morrow at breakfast.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE DEPARTURE.
Hildegarde did not appear the next morning, and Hamilton breakfasted with Madame Rosenberg sitting opposite to him in a striped red and white dressing-gown; her hair, as usual, twisted up to the very roots with hair-pins, to prepare curls which, however, seldom made their appearance at home, excepting on the evenings which the Hoffmanns spent with her. She sat opposite to him, and watched while he vainly endeavoured to improve his coffee by adding alternately cream and sugar. “One never enjoys a breakfast at this early hour,” she observes at length, “the coffee is, however, quite as good as usual; I made it myself.”