“Madame Fiddlestick!—you know I mean Hildegarde.”
“She did not speak to me.”
“Perhaps a look was sufficient?”
“She did not look at me.”
“But you looked at her?”
“Undoubtedly—I like looking at her—and at you, too, if you have no objection.”
“I see I shall be obliged to complain of you to the Doctor—and I tell you he is horribly jealous at times!”
“How very considerate of him to stand with his back to us all this time,” said Hamilton, laughing; “one would almost think he did it on purpose! But see, the children are coming to say good-night, and the Hoffmanns seem to be going——”
“I suppose the Doctor will insist on my going, too!” said Madame Berger; “he has no sort of consideration for me, and the idea will never enter his old head, that I should like to go to the midnight mass with you—all.”
The Doctor did insist, and the company departed together. Mr. Rosenberg at once declared his intention to go to bed; his wife said she would doze on the sofa until it was time to go to church; Major Stultz placed himself, as usual, beside Crescenz and her work-basket, and began a whispered conversation, which, however, in time perceptibly flagged, for Crescenz’s fingers moved more quickly than her tongue—the monotony of his own voice on the otherwise unbroken stillness in the room naturally produced drowsiness, with which the Major long and valiantly combated—but it was in vain he endeavoured to sit bolt upright in his chair, occasionally staring wildly around him. After having made a succession of sleepy obeisances, of such profundity that Crescenz’s demure smile almost verged into laughter, his arms sank at length heavily on his outspread legs, his head sought support on the uncomfortable low back of his chair, his jaw fell, and the long-drawn breathing degenerated into snores both loud and long.