Count Raimund played with the hilt of his sword, which he had laid on the form beside him.
“Oscar,” continued Hildegarde, after a pause, in a low voice, “don’t be so unjust, so tyrannical as to deprive me of my galop. Choose somebody else. See, there is Marie still disengaged—go quickly, before anyone else can——”
“Thank you,” said Raimund, interrupting her; “you are very kind, but I have no inclination whatever that way. Marie may be very good for household purposes, but I must say I rejoice in the idea that our marriage will free me from these ball-room duties towards a person I have scarcely learned to tolerate. In fact, I believe I detest her, so has she been forced upon me!”
“Oscar, Oscar—take care! Do not speak so loud. What would people think of you, were you to be heard? Someone may tell Marie, and make her repent her disinterested conduct towards you—she does not deserve to be made unhappy, especially by you?”
“What did you say, sir?” cried Raimund, speaking angrily, across Hildegarde to Hamilton.
“I have not had time to say anything,” he replied, laughing.
“But you looked as if you agreed with my cousin?”
“My looks are expressive, it seems,” said Hamilton, coolly.
“Perhaps you intend to inform my betrothed of what I have just now said?” cried Raimund, still more angrily.
“My acquaintance with her is of too recent a date to admit of my doing so.”