It was the waiter, the “stupid man,” who was again to remind them of the impropriety of their conduct. He had returned to say that the band of one of the regiments at Cologne would play in the garden—perhaps Madame would like a table and chair to be kept for her?
Hamilton did not venture to look at his companion, as he refused the offered civility, but snatching up his hat, hurried away as fast as he could.
But he returned, and very soon too, and great was his annoyance to find Hildegarde already in her room, and the door closed; he walked backwards and forwards, not very patiently or quietly, for about ten minutes, and then knocked.
“Good night,” said Hildegarde.
“I am sorry to tell you that I have not been able to find a room, excepting in a very out-of-the-way place: as the packet leaves so early, and I am so apt to be late, I thought it better to ask you what I should do?”
“I am very sorry,” began Hildegarde.
“So am I,” said Hamilton, “but as it cannot be helped, I think you might just as well come out here for an hour, and talk over our journey back.”
“I am going to bed; I am tired.”
“Have you any objection to my smoking a cigar, if I open the window?”
“None whatever, you may smoke a dozen if you like.”