Just as all the bells in the neighbourhood were chiming noon, Hamilton walked into the wash-house, and there found A. Z. standing beside an immense boiler, filled with a substance very much resembling porridge; she was examining some of it, as it trickled down a piece of flat wood, which she held in her hand, and having dipped her finger into it, and found that it formed what she called a thimble, she appeared satisfied. Some few directions she gave to a little old woman, who seemed very learned on the subject of soap-boiling, and then she wound her way through the surrounding tubs and buckets and pails to Hamilton, and with him went unceremoniously to dinner.
When Hamilton, a couple of hours afterwards, joined A. Z. in the drawing-room, he found her turning over the last leaves of his journal, as she sat in a large arm-chair, beside the slightly heated stove. She turned round immediately and observed: “Well, Mr. Hamilton, you ‘rather hoped I should find time to talk.’ I have time now, and only wait to hear what is to be the subject of conversation.”
He drew a chair close to her, and said, “First of all—your opinion of Hildegarde. Does she care for me?”
“I am afraid she does,” answered A. Z.
“How can you say, ‘afraid,’ when you know it is what I most wish—my only chance of happiness! I fear nothing but a refusal now. Have you not observed that she has never said a word which could make me for a moment imagine she cared in the least for me?”
“Judge her actions, and not her words,” answered A. Z.
“And if her actions should denote more friendship than love?”
“The friendship of a girl of eighteen for a man of one-or two-and-twenty is very apt to degenerate into love.”
“And you call that degenerating?”
A. Z. nodded her head, and said, “We have no time to discuss that matter now, nor is it necessary; but there is something I should like to say to you, if you will allow me.”