“You don’t know her as well as I do. Without particularly caring for you, she may—in fact she must, have become accustomed to your attentions—for who else have you to talk to? Now, any lessening of the homage one has been used to is sure to irritate—should you like to make her jealous?”
“Jealous!” repeated Hamilton, and he thought of what had occurred the day before in the garden. Could he in any way provoke her jealousy, he should be able perhaps to judge of the state of her feelings towards him; if, as she professed, but which he could not quite believe, friendship was really all she felt for him, why then, the magnanimous plans, the colossal sacrifices he had lately so often meditated, would be thrown away, and he might after all share the fate of Zedwitz. Here was an opportunity of making the trial, without committing either Hildegarde or himself. The temptation was strong to make the experiment, and he again repeated, very thoughtfully, the word “Jealous!”
“Yes, jealous; jealous of your allegiance. She will at first think I am to blame, but you must show her the contrary. You——”
“Stay,” cried Hamilton, “what will Madame Rosenberg say?”
“No matter what; I shall give her no opportunity of lecturing me. She is too good-natured to tell the Doctor, and Biedermann will never hear anything about the matter.”
“Biedermann?”
“Yes, Theodor; he would be much more angry than the Doctor, I suspect.”
“But what right has he——”
“Oh, none in the world; but, you see I have got accustomed to his attentions, and cannot do without them—he is enormously prosy sometimes—but then he loves me; even when he is scolding I can observe it, and attribute half his lectures to jealousy. One likes a little sentiment sometimes, you know, and once accustomed to these sort of petit soins, it is impossible to resign them without an effort, of which I confess I am incapable; I should die of ennui.”
“But,” said Hamilton, “do you not think there is danger in a connection of the kind?”