Hildegarde began to scribble on the blotting paper with great diligence.
“I see you do not believe me.”
“I do, partly, especially if you think you must be quieter than on former occasions, now that mamma has remarked it. The fact is, I think Lina altogether to blame, and I have often admired your forbearance.”
“Thank you,” cried Hamilton, “I am quite satisfied now.”
“Do not be quite satisfied with yourself,” said Hildegarde, “for I must tell you honestly that I am quite disposed to be unjust to Lina; more than ready to put an unkind construction on all she does or says.”
“Why?” asked Hamilton, with a blush of pleasure, as a faint vision of the “green-eyed monster” approaching Hildegarde floated before his imagination. “Why?”
“Because I dislike her. We waged war with each other for nearly ten years.”
“Ah, I remember, she told me you were rival beauties at school.”
“There was no rivalry on my part,” said Hildegarde quietly; “I never hesitated to acknowledge her beauty: it is of the most captivating description, and even when she is most disagreeable to me I admire her person.”
“You dislike her mind—her disposition, which is so different from yours,” said Hamilton.