“If you think so,” said Hamilton, every trace of annoyance disappearing from his face, “why, the sooner we go the better.”
“But the expense,” said Hildegarde, hesitatingly.
“Will not be greater than remaining here; do not let that weigh with you for a moment.”
“Perhaps I ought to write to my mother, or Hortense?”
“You cannot have an answer for several days, and it is better to wait until you have seen the Baroness Waldorf; I should think whether you were here or at Mayence must be a matter of indifference to them, and I am sure your mother would be quite satisfied if she knew that you were under my care!”
“That I think too,” said Hildegarde, “and I should like to put an end to my present state of uncertainty as soon as possible. I do not,” she continued, half laughing, “I do not feel any sort of scruples about travelling with you; I suppose, because we have lived so long in the same house, and I know you so well; but when Count Zedwitz to-day proposed my returning home with him——”
“Zedwitz! To-day!” repeated Hamilton, amazed.
“Yes. In passing through Frankfort to-day, he dined and changed horses here. I saw him for a few minutes when I was waiting for your return; he strongly advised me not to go to the Baroness Waldorf, and seemed, oddly enough, to think she had gone away on purpose.”
“Not impossible—not improbable. Did he explain, in any way, the cause of his suspicions?”
“No, he had not time, his father is dying, and he is, of course, most anxious to get home. He—he went away just as I was going to tell him that you was here——” she stopped, embarrassed.