“I quarrel with everybody,” said Hildegarde, with a sigh; “a passionate temper is a great misfortune—but I can and will learn to control it. Perhaps the fear of my losing my temper, and not the fear of shocking me, prevented you from telling your thoughts just now? Do not wait until to-morrow, but speak freely and at once.” “Excuse me,” said Hamilton, rising, “I have changed my mind, and will neither speak now nor to-morrow—I have no right to correct, and certainly no wish to bore you.” “I might have guessed what your answer would have been,” cried Hildegarde, petulantly. “You store up every hasty word to bring forward just when I wish it forgotten! If you will not tell me, I may as well wish you good-night.” She took up the candle and walked to the door. “Good-night,” said Hamilton, approaching as if to close it after her, and making no attempt whatever to detain her. “As you feared to shock me,” said Hildegarde, stopping suddenly, “I suppose I have done something very wrong?” and she looked up inquiringly. “I really do not know,” replied Hamilton, stiffly. “You—you most disagreeable person—” she began angrily, but seeing that Hamilton was endeavouring to suppress a smile, she exclaimed: “Well, if this is not affecting superiority, I do not understand you at all!—What must I say to you? I was wrong to defend Oscar, he is unfortunately a—a—great reprobate, I suppose, but he is my cousin, my only cousin, and I admire him more than anyone I have ever seen.” “You had better tell him so,” said Hamilton, ironically. “It is not necessary, he is perfectly aware of his advantages,” she replied in the same tone. “So I perceived at the races to-day.” “That he did not please you I saw at once,” said Hildegarde, playing with the lock of the door. “You looked so unfriendly and haughty that the Hoffmanns could hardly believe all I said in your praise.” “So you undertook my defence,” said Hamilton quickly. “Of course, I always defend the absent, especially when they are censured by people who do not know them. If Oscar had not been attacked this evening, I should never have attempted to take his part—Perhaps you don’t believe me?” “I do believe you—but I cannot understand how Madame de Hoffmann could allow him to speak so freely.” “She is very deaf and he was seated at the pianoforte; Marie at one side of him, and I at the other—he spoke very gently, and sometimes played a few chords, which gave the appearance of a sort of recitation. Exactly what I imagined an improvisatore must be! I am sure he would make an excellent actor!” “And I am sure he will prove a dangerous man,” said Hamilton. “If he keeps his promises, Marie will nevertheless be very happy with him—he is a person one must admire, and might easily love—but I am keeping you from writing, and I dare say you would rather hear what I have to say to-morrow.” “By no means—if you have anything more to say, I should like to hear it.”