“If he really wish it,” said Hildegarde; “but he looks so very seriously English to-night, that if I were to propose dancing with him, I am sure he will say no!”
“Try me,” said Hamilton; “or rather write my name in your book, that I may be sure you are in earnest.”
“You must not trust to my memory, for I have neither ball-book nor tablets. I have no one,” she added, looking archly toward her sister, “I have no one to supply me with ball-books and bouquets,” and she bent her head over her sister’s hand, which could scarcely clasp the geraniums, heliotropes, and China roses with which it was filled.
A moment after, she had joined the dancers, and Hamilton stood thoughtfully beside his partner.
“Do you not admire my bouquet?” she asked, holding it coquettishly towards him.
“Exceedingly; for the time of year it is beautiful.”
“Major Stultz waited at the door to give it to me. It was an attention I never expected from him.”
“Why not?” asked Hamilton, absently.
“Oh, because he was so many years a soldier and in the wars, and in Russia, and all that. I thought it was only young—a—a—persons—with whom one danced—who gave bouquets.”
“Very true,” said Hamilton, laughing, “and it is disgracefully negligent of young—a—persons to forget such things sometimes.”