Hildegarde became so suddenly and remarkably pale, that Hamilton, who was in the habit of watching her, immediately perceived it, and exclaimed, “What is the matter? Are you ill?”
“Not in the least,” she answered, hastily rising and walking to the other end of the room.
“But is it not odious?” cried Crescenz, indignantly; “she is the very last person I should have thought of!”
“And the very first I should have suspected,” said Hildegarde.
The house-bell rang, and a slight noise in the passage was followed by the entrance of the person who had been the subject of conversation. “How very odd!” exclaimed Crescenz, while Madame Berger, advancing towards Hamilton, held out her hand, saying, “A l’Anglaise; how I like your English custom of shaking hands—it is so friendly! Bon soir, Hildegarde. Give me a kiss, Cressy. Here I am, come all in the snow on foot to talk over our first ball, eh? and to arrange the party of which we spoke,” she added, turning to Hamilton.
“How provoking—and I am just preparing to go to the theatre!”
“You most uncivil person! Can you not bestow half an hour on me?”
“An hour—two hours, if you in the slightest degree wish it. My regrets were for myself.”
Hildegarde and Crescenz look at each other.
“I have not,” he continued gayly, “forgotten the pleasant evenings which I spent in your house during my banishment—they will ever remain among my most agreeable recollections.”