“Do not be alarmed,” said Hamilton, smiling; “I have no intention of ever again favouring you with avowals of affection as absurd as useless. You are quite right not to listen to me, but you must have the kindness not to listen to my midnight representatives either. Such men must not speak for me.”
“Do not think about that any more,” said Hildegarde; “I dislike the recollection of my stupidity.”
“If I only knew who it was,” said Hamilton, contracting his brows.
“You possibly suspect Oscar, but when I referred to the subject yesterday evening, he did not in the least understand what I meant, and afterwards denied having seen me from the time I had received my Christmas presents.”
“So, then, it was Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, musingly. “I am sorry for it; our friendship is at an end.”
“Oh, no,” cried Hildegarde; “perhaps it was not Count Zedwitz; it is not like him to act so; besides, he never speaks French with me, and—and his manners are always so respectful. Oh, no, I do not think—I am quite sure it could not have been Count Zedwitz.”
“How can you, who are always so rational and candid, talk so? You know it must have been one or the other; no one else could have any motive for asking those questions; I only wish——”
“And I wish,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him, “I wish you would not either think or speak again about this disagreeable affair. Oscar has denied knowing anything about it; therefore you have no pretence to seek a quarrel with him. You have scarcely a right on suspicion to withdraw your friendship from Count Zedwitz.”
“On suspicion! No; but I shall certainly ask him if he was on the stairs of your house on Christmas Eve.”
“He will say that he was not.”