“My letter!” cried Hildegarde, starting up with all her former vehemence of manner. “How dare you——” she stopped and sat down, breathing quickly and audibly.
“You are in a passion,” said Hamilton.
“I was,” she replied, taking a long breath; “it is over.”
“Oh, no; be angry, I entreat; say—do something outrageous or I can have no hope of forgiveness. We have changed characters; you have learned to control your anger, and have me now in your power; be merciful!”
“Rather tell me to be candid,” she replied, rising; “writing that letter in your presence was an unnecessary display of self-control; I was not so calm as I wished you to suppose me.”
“Well, you certainly are the most honourable——”
“Don’t praise me,” she said, hastily; “I cannot listen to you when I am so dissatisfied with myself. I fancied my temper was corrected; I find it has merely not been tried.”
“Your temper is a very good one,” said Hamilton. “That you doubt yourself, and are on your guard, is rather an advantage than otherwise. I always have been considered so good-tempered, that when I feel angry it never occurs to me to conceal it, and the consequence is that you have seen me forget myself more than once.”
Just then Madame Rosenberg entered the garden, holding a very diminutive note in her hand. “I am come,” she said, “to remind you of a promise which you made to a lady, I hope with the consent of her husband.”
“I don’t know any lady likely to remind me of a promise, excepting, perhaps, Madame Berger.”