“And then—I said—I could not like him otherwise than as a—cousin.”
“But surely, situated as he is, he must have expected just such an answer from you. Were he free and independent, you would probably have spoken differently. Did you not console him by telling him so?”
Hildegarde remained silent, her eyes almost closed.
“And if you told him that,” continued Hamilton, “there was no possible excuse for the dagger-scene; he might have been despairing, but not desperate, on such an occasion. Tell me, Hildegarde, did you say that?”
“No,” she replied, almost in a whisper, “no; for though I admire Oscar, I do not love him at all.”
“Then you must have said something else!”
“You are worrying me,” she murmured, with an expression of pain.
“I see I am,” cried Hamilton. “Forgive me, but I must ask one question more. Did he not ask you if you loved another?”
“Yes,” said Hildegarde, turning away her face, which was once more covered with blushes.
“And you acknowledged?”