“I had an appointment,” he said, looking at his watch, “for which I am too late. I have another, for which I am a few minutes too early.”
“A few minutes,” repeated Madame Rosenberg. “That will never do for me. In your ‘few minutes’ I can only inform you that you must go for a few days at least to Havard’s, until I have got everything in order. Hildegarde and the children I intend to pack off the day after to-morrow.”
“Oh, pack me off, too, with Hil——with the children,” cried Hamilton, eagerly. “I wish you would consider me really as one of them.”
“Well, I am sure I have always done so since you have been with me. Poor Franz often said I took great liberties with you.”
“I cannot remember anything of the kind.”
“Why, have you forgotten the Sunday Fritz broke the window in the drawing-room, when you were teaching him to box?”
“I remember you boxed his ears, poor fellow, which he certainly did not deserve, as he was not really the cause of the mischief. It was I who pushed him against the window, and, if I recollect right, both Mr. Rosenberg and I protested——”
“Yes, you protested, and that made me still more angry; but if you don’t remember what I said to you, so much the better. Franz said he believed you never heard it, as you were laughing with Madame Berger, and I was afterwards very sorry for having said so much, especially about the rough English plays.”
Hamilton smiled. “I suppose,” he said, turning towards the door, “Hans may pack up my chattels; you will send me to the country with the children.”
“No, no, no,” cried Madame Rosenberg, hastily, “that will never do; I must write to my father and explain. If he knew the sort of person you are—he would never consent to your becoming an inmate of his house!”