Hamilton approached Crescenz and whispered hurriedly: “What is the matter? Why are you so unhappy? What on earth has occurred during my absence from Seon?”
“Nothing, nothing! Nothing has occurred which can in any way interest you,” she replied, walking quickly on.
“You are unkind, mademoiselle,” said Hamilton, slowly and reproachfully—“unnecessarily unkind. From the commencement of our acquaintance, short as it has been, I have felt the greatest interest in all that concerns you. I see you unhappy—wish to offer any consolation in my power—and am treated with disdain.”
“I did not mean to treat you with disdain,” said Crescenz, softening, and walking more slowly.
“Your sister is not so cruel to Count Zedwitz.” In fact, they were just then speaking rather earnestly. This had great effect.
“What do you wish to know?” she asked, gently.
“I wish to know the cause of your unhappiness. I wish to know why you avoid me.”
“That I cannot tell you so easily! You will hear, perhaps—but you will not understand what—that is—how—I mean to say why I could not refuse. I—I cannot tell you,” she cried, bursting into tears, and walking on so quickly that she had nearly reached her sister before Hamilton could say in a whisper, “To-night, at the foot of the broad staircase leading to the cloisters—may I expect you?”
“No, no, no!”
“There will be moonlight; at nine o’clock I shall be there.”