“But we shall dance,” cried Crescenz, “and Major Stultz said I might waltz as often as I pleased with you this evening!”
“How very kind!” said Hamilton, smiling; “and how often do you intend to make use of the permission?”
“That depends upon you, I should think,” she answered, blushing.
“You had better not trust to my discretion. I shall be tempted to make up for lost time, and dance with you the whole evening. You have put no sugar in my coffee,” turning with a look of mock distress to Hildegarde. “Did you forget it on purpose to punish me for being so late?”
“No. I—I was thinking of something.”
“And that something?”
“Is not of much importance. I was thinking that, had you made that speech to Crescenz a few months ago, I should have been angry, for I should have imagined you were amusing yourself at her expense—whereas I now know that you mean nothing, but that you will dance with her two or three times this evening.”
“And,” said Hamilton, warmly, “and that I like to dance with her, and am obliged to her for wishing to dance with me. I mean that, too.”
“I knew you did,” cried Crescenz, triumphantly. “I am sure I always understood you better than Hildegarde, notwithstanding all her cleverness; but from the time that Count Zedwitz told her that you were already quite a man of the world, a—a—what was the word, Hildegarde?”
“I don’t remember the word,” she answered, calmly.