“Give me my bracelet,” said Hildegarde, impatiently. He held it towards her with both hands, and a look of pretended alarm. She half smiled, and extended her arm, while with a degree of trepidation which he in vain endeavoured to overcome, he placed the tongue in the serpent’s head which formed the clasp. When he looked up her head was averted, and she was jesting with her father about her chance of finding partners or being left sitting.
“Pray, keep one waltz or galop in reserve for me,” cried Hamilton. “I shall be at the Museum between ten and eleven o’clock.”
Hildegarde murmured a sort of assent, but the expression of her countenance denoted anything but satisfaction. She became grave and thoughtful. It was impossible not to perceive the change, and with ill-concealed mortification Hamilton turned to her father: “Your daughter does not know, perhaps, that I have learned to waltz since I came here. I am no longer a bad dancer.”
“Oh, dear! I always thought you danced extremely well,” said Crescenz.
“I may depend upon your keeping a waltz free for me; if Major Stultz will permit it.”
“Oh, yes; that is,” said Crescenz, correcting herself, “if you can remember your engagement with me when Lina Berger is present.”
“Madame Berger has no influence whatever upon my memory.”
“No, but upon your heart.”
“None whatever. She is very pretty, very amusing, very flattering, everything you please but lovable.”
“Well, if she only heard you say that!” began Crescenz.