“That is Harry Waldcott, a great friend of my brother John’s, the most amusing, worthless, extravagant fellow in the world. Were he to find out where I am, he would come to the Iron Works to-morrow, establish himself at the inn, use my horses, abuse myself, laugh at your step-mother, bully Mr. Eisenmann, and, for all I know, fall in love with you!”
“Dreadful person!” cried Hildegarde, laughing.
“As it is, he has seen enough—too much, unfortunately, I think,” he continued, with increasing irritation of manner. “I think I hear his exaggerations to my father, his insinuations when talking to my uncle! No: he shall never know where I am—nothing shall tempt me into Munich for a fortnight at least!”
“You think, perhaps, that your father and uncle would disapprove of your being at the Iron Works?”
“Think!” cried Hamilton, “I am sure of it. My father would say I was losing my time; my uncle, that I was making a fool of myself.”
Neither of them spoke a word until they reached home, and Hamilton was remarkably thoughtful during the remainder of the evening.
The next day he was as cheerful as ever; and having from his window seen Hildegarde walking towards the arbour with some paper and an ink-stand in her hand, he took up the book they were reading together, and followed her. She had just finished making a pen when he entered, and throwing it on the table, she leaned forward and began, rather formally:
“Mr. Hamilton——”
“Pray, call me Alfred—I have long wished it, and we are quite intimate enough to admit of your doing so. I called you Hildegarde the first month I was in your house.”
“It is perhaps an English custom,” she said, half inquiringly.