“Hildegarde, make a little parcel of it, and write her a line,” said Madame Rosenberg.
Hildegarde took her brother Gustle’s pen, and on a leaf of his copy-book wrote her a few severe words, which not even the usual “dear Lina,” or the schoolfellow tutoiment could soften.
Hamilton smiled, and unconsciously pulled his glove towards his wrist until he tore it. “These are the worst gloves I have ever had,” he cried, impatiently throwing them on the table; “that is the second pair I have spoiled to-day.”
“The gloves seem to be very good,” observed Madame Rosenberg, taking them up, “and as they are a very pretty colour, Hildegarde may as well mend them for you, but while she is doing so you must seal and direct this parcel to Lina,” and leaving them thus employed she walked out of the room.
“Permit me,” said Hamilton, half jestingly, a few minutes afterwards, as Hildegarde returned him the gloves, “permit me to kiss your hand;” and then he added, “this seals our reconciliation I hope?”
“We have had no quarrel, and require none,” answered Hildegarde.
“Yet you have been displeased—angry with me—have you not?” asked Hamilton.
“I have had no cause—I have no right——”
“But you know what I mean?”
“I think I do,” replied Hildegarde, half smiling, and quite blushing.