“Yes. Wait a moment, I want to ask you a question.”
Hamilton bent down; his face, by degrees became crimson, and he glanced furtively at Hildegarde, as if he feared she might have overheard the whisper; but she, quite unconscious that so many eyes were fixed upon her, was leaning back, and absently twisting her purse round her fingers.
Hamilton drove off at a furious rate, but scarcely were they out of the town, when, throwing the reins to Hans, he stepped over the seat and placed himself beside Hildegarde.
“I am surprised,” she observed, with a smile, “that you did not remain with your friends, and send us home with Hans.”
“It would have been the wisest thing I could have done: it was confoundedly stupid, my not thinking of doing so. Stop!” he cried to Hans; but directly after, sinking back on his seat, he added, “No—go on,” and then murmured, “it is too late now. The best plan will be not to return. The less he knows, the less he can talk about.”
Hildegarde bent forward. “Talk about what?” she asked.
“You cannot understand,” he answered, quickly.
“No: I perceive I cannot. I have not the most remote idea whether or not you were glad to see these friends.”
“They are my relations, my cousins; and that one who last spoke to me—did you observe him?”
“Not particularly.”