“In London people call them Bavarians; and I must confess they never interested me sufficiently to induce me to make inquiries.”
“Very likely; but when I tell you that Bavarians do not lightly forsake their country, that they are seldom so poor as not to have enough to live upon—our marriage-laws provide against that; that London is a long way from Bavaria, and the steam-packets make it an easy matter for Dutch girls to transport themselves there, you will also think with me that they are more probably Dutch than Bavarian.”
“How warmly you defend your countrywomen and their hideous caps,” cried Hamilton, laughing. “But, really,” he added, opening the door of his room, before which they stood, “really, the matter is not worth a dispute. The girls are Dutch, if you will have it so, but the caps are ugly, say what you will.”
“It depends so entirely on the wearer of the cap! For instance, to-night I thought that cap the most becoming thing I ever saw!”
“Perhaps you also prefer one foot in a slipper and the other bare.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that the fair Hildegarde could only find one slipper in the dark, and pattered about with her bare foot, as if it were the most comfortable thing possible!”
“I did not look at her feet; but even if I had, I should only have admired her forgetfulness of self in her anxiety about her sister.”
“You are right, Zedwitz,” cried Hamilton, with unusual warmth; “quite right. And though I will not, cannot, say that I think the nightcap pretty, I must acknowledge that I admired Hildegarde to-night more than anyone I ever saw. She is superlatively handsome, and it is the greater pity that she is such a devil.”
“A devil! Are you raving?”