Such influence had Hildegarde acquired over Hamilton, that the fear of incurring her displeasure prevented him from laughing aloud, or at first even looking up; after some time, however, pressing his lips firmly against his book, his eyes glanced over it with a mixed expression of mirth and curiosity, from one sister to the other. Crescenz seemed embarrassed, but there was not a particle of either dislike or impatience in the look which she bestowed on the sleeper. She bent towards her sister, and said in a whisper, “If I could manage to put a sofa cushion on the back of the chair!”
“An excellent idea,” said Hildegarde, taking up one, and preparing to assist her.
“Give me the cushion, and do you move his head,” said Crescenz, timidly.
“No, dear, that is your office,” replied her sister, half laughing.
“But if he should wake,” cried Crescenz, drawing back.
“He will scarcely be angry,” said Hildegarde, approaching with the cushion.
Crescenz took it from her, and began to insinuate it between his head and the chair—her movements were so gentle that she succeeded without awakening him—his mouth closed with a slight jerk, while uttering a grunt of sleepy satisfaction, as his chin dropped on his breast.
Nothing could be less attractive than Major Stultz’s face at this moment, with his puffed-out crimson cheeks and wrinkled double chin—but Crescenz saw him not; with a good-humoured smile she tried to arrange still better the supporting cushion, and then stood behind him with all the immovable serenity of a Caryatid. Hildegarde walked to the window, and holding her hands at each side of her temples, endeavoured to look out into the darkness. “We shall have rain, I fear,” she observed to Hamilton, who had followed her.
He opened the window—it was a cold, cheerless night, the flickering lamps throwing unsteady gleams of light across the street.
“The weather is not very inviting,” said Hildegarde, drawing back into the warm room with a slight shudder.