"No—you need not speak. I know what you would say. Our hearts speak each to the other without words, my beautiful jewel. And what do you think your parents will say?"
"I—I don't know," stammered Hilda.
"They are so set on my marrying"—she glanced toward Otto—how ordinary he looked!—"marrying another—a merchant like my father. They think only of what is practical. I'm so afraid they won't understand—US."
Feuerstein sighed—the darkness prevented her from seeing that he was also frowning with impatience and irritation.
"But it must be settled at once, my heart's bride," he said gently. "Secrecy, deception are horrible to me. And I am mad to claim you as my own. I could not take you without their consent—that would be unworthy. No, I could not grieve their honest hearts!"
Hilda was much disturbed. She was eminently practical herself, aside from her fondness for romance, which Mr. Feuerstein was developing in a way so unnatural in her surroundings, so foreign to her education; and she could see just how her father would look upon her lover. She feared he would vent plain speech that would cut Mr. Feuerstein's sensitive soul and embattle his dignity and pride against his love. "I'll speak to them as soon as I can," she said.
"Then you will speak to them to-morrow or next day, my treasure, and I shall see you on Sunday afternoon."
"No—not Sunday afternoon. I must stay at home—father has ordered it."
"Disappointment—deception—postponement!" Feuerstein struck his hand upon his brow and sighed tragically. "Oh, my little Erebus-haired angel, how you do test my love!"
Hilda was almost in tears—it was all intensely real to her. She felt that he was superfine, that he suffered more than ordinary folk, like herself and her people. "I'll do the best I can," she pleaded.