“Lina Berger examined your dressing-case one evening when she was in your room. Crescenz was present, and naturally told me of the miniature—I often reminded her of it.”
“Indeed! And for what purpose?”
“To prevent her forgetting that you had not even a heart to bestow on her.”
“You are right. But to return to the miniature; the original possesses, indeed, a large portion of my affection——” Hamilton stopped; he had flattered himself that his companion would, in some way, betray feelings either of jealousy or curiosity, but she walked on steadily without looking at him; and when he paused, she observed, “You must make haste; we are just at the corner; you need not tell me about the original, but say what you wish me to do with the picture.”
“Should we never meet again, unfeeling girl,” said Hamilton, half laughing, “you must send the picture to my father, for it is my sister Helen’s portrait.”
As he spoke, they had reached the place where he knew he must leave her; she stopped, and said quickly, “Mr. Hamilton, I have in this instance done you great injustice; I thought your heart was bestowed on the original of the miniature. Without this explanation I should certainly have regarded your conduct towards us as unpardonably—heartless!”
“Not quite,” said Hamilton, lightly; “I really had a heart at my disposal some time ago; younger sons are allowed to have hearts in England, and to give them away as they please; few people here think it worth while to accept so worthless a thing as a heart alone. In Germany, the same rational idea seems to prevail——”
“Not so,” cried Hildegarde, warmly; “a heart is always of value—must be of value to every one, especially to every woman.”
“You are making a collection of such valuables, I think,” said Hamilton. “Your cousin’s has been forced upon you; Zedwitz’s, to say the least, you tacitly accepted; what you intend to do with mine——”
“I must go home now,” said Hildegarde, glancing uneasily down the street; “it may be remarked if I stand here so long with you——”