“It meant, I remember,” said Crescenz, “a person who was too cold and calculating for his years—who was too worldly to have much feeling.”
“That was unjust—that was saying too much,” cried Hamilton, colouring.
“So Hildegarde thought also, but she has always insisted that you are proud and calculating, and that you seek to amuse yourself with other people’s feelings and weaknesses.”
“Is this your opinion of me?” said Hamilton, turning to Hildegarde.
“It was,” she replied, steadily.
“Oh, Hildegarde is not afraid to say what she thinks; her opinion of you must have greatly changed, if it be what you would like to hear.”
Hildegarde moved behind her sister to hide the intense blush which now spread over her features, and, placing her hand on her shoulder, perhaps to prevent her from turning round, she said, in a low voice, and with an embarrassed manner, “Crescenz, you have no idea, I am sure, how you are paining me at this moment. You are forcing me to confess, that I have not in this instance acted towards you with my usual candour. I have the very highest opinion of Mr. Hamilton.”
“Well, to be sure!” exclaimed Crescenz, while she endeavoured to catch a glimpse of her sister’s face, but Hildegarde moved still further back, and continued: “That I disliked him at first is most true, more on your account, however, than on mine; for his open hostility to me was excusable—his covert attentions to you unpardonable.”
“But,” said Crescenz, who seemed altogether to have forgotten Hamilton’s presence; “but when did you begin to think differently of him?”
“From the time that he has ceased to be the subject of altercation between us,” answered Hildegarde, bending over her sister, and kissing her forehead.