“Perfectly,” said Hamilton, dryly.
“I know I have a sad habit of taking likings and dislikings,” she continued, listlessly.
“Yes, and on such occasions you are not exactly blind; you can even mistake faults for perfections.”
“I am afraid that it is true,” said Hildegarde, leaning back in her chair, with half-closed eyes, and speaking very slowly. “I remember for some time thinking Madame de Hoffmann agreeable and entertaining; her severe remarks I mistook for wit, until they were directed against myself.”
“And what an antipathy you took to me at first sight!” observed Hamilton.
“You have no idea how she disliked you,” cried Crescenz, who had, unperceived, approached them. They both started, and then blushed, as she continued, “if you had only heard her in Berchtesgaden railing at the cold, proud Englishman.”
“Crescenz,” said Hildegarde, with evident effort, “don’t let us talk of that now; I cannot defend myself against you both to-day, I am too tired.”
“Perhaps you begin to think differently of him,” said Crescenz, archly; “Lina Berger may after all be right. When we were waiting for you last night at her house, she said she thought your hatred might in the end turn into——”
“Oh, Crescenz,” gasped Hildegarde, in so unnatural a tone that her father called out, “Why, what’s the matter there?”
“Hildegarde is getting into a passion,” said Madame Rosenberg. “Do you not see how she is changing colour?”