“I am afraid Hildegarde is not likely to be married at all, now that we are going to live at the Iron Works,” sighed Madame Rosenberg. “The only neighbour we have is the Förster, and he——”
“Lord bless you!” cried Madame Berger, “Hildegarde would never look at a Förster if he were not by chance a count or baron. Had Mr. Hamilton only been a Milor, she would never have thought of quarrelling with him, I can tell you!”
“Caroline!—madame!” exclaimed Hildegarde, with a vehemence that made Madame Berger retreat a few steps from the window, while she cried, with affected fear, “Good heavens! I had no idea you could get into a passion about him! And here he is,” she added, springing again to the window as she heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the pavement; “here he is, and I suspect there are few Milors to be compared to him; he certainly is the handsomest creature I ever saw! An ideal of an Englishman! Un amour!”
“Lina!” said Madame Rosenberg, reproachfully, “you must forgive my observing that this language is not proper for a young married woman.”
“Ah, bah! as if I were serious! Have you forgotten that you used to say I always spoke without thinking? Now, Hildegarde there thinks without speaking, perhaps!”
“Not of Mr. Hamilton!” said Madame Rosenberg, “for she did not even look out of the window at your amour, or whatever you call him. Hildegarde, go and tell him we have waited nearly two hours for him, that supper is ready, and that I beg he will come just as he is, and not make an evening toilet for once in a way.”
She had not time to deliver her message, for Hamilton entered the room with unusual precipitation, and handed Madame Rosenberg an enormous, ill-folded, long-wafered letter.
“From my father!” she exclaimed, with surprise.
“Yes; he has no sort of objection to my accompanying you to the Iron Works; he says you may take me instead of Fritz.”
“A good idea,” cried Madame Berger, as she came from behind the window-curtain; “it is, however, Mr. Hamilton’s, and not your father’s.”