“You are not acting as Hildegarde would,” said Hamilton, still more seriously. “Don’t praise her too much, you are out of favour with her just now, I can tell you.” “What do you mean?” asked Hamilton, quickly. “I mean that I am sure you must have been very uncivil to her last night when you refused her the candle, for she cried a good half-hour before she went to bed; and Hildegarde does not cry for nothing! Perhaps if I had gone for the candle, you would have given it.” “Perhaps,” answered Hamilton, absently. “I am sure you would,” she persisted. “Oh, of course, of course.” “Well, I told her so, and wanted to get up and go to you—but she would not allow me.” “She was right,” said Hamilton, endeavouring to overtake Madame Rosenberg, while she was speaking. “Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t bring me again to mamma! I have been so lectured by her already—perhaps you heard what she said?” “No, I was speaking to Major Stultz.” “And _he_ was so—so very rude to me—you have no idea.” “He told you some unpleasant truths.” “Truths!” exclaimed Crescenz. “Yes, truths,” repeated Hamilton. “You are very pretty, and very good-natured, but you certainly are a—a coquette—what we call in England a flirt.” “Well, how odd!” exclaimed Crescenz. “Do you know—I don’t at all mind your telling me that—and I was so very angry with him! I declare now I should like to hear all my faults!” “I dare say Major Stultz will enumerate them, if you desire it,” said Hamilton, now determinedly joining Madame Rosenberg, and remaining beside her the rest of the way home. --------------------- CHAPTER XVII. LOVERS’ QUARRELS. THE moon was shining brightly on their house, as they lingered in the street to speak a few parting words. Mademoiselle de Hoffmann sat at an open window, and gazed pensively upwards. “Should you not like to know the thoughts of your betrothed at this moment?” asked Mr. Rosenberg, turning to Raimund. “Not at all,” he replied, carelessly glancing towards the house, “I am sure they are commonplace, for a more matter-of-fact person does not exist than Marie de Hoffmann.” “So,” cried Zedwitz, “it is really true that you are going to be married! I am glad to hear it, and congratulate you with all my heart.” “Thank you,” said Raimund musingly, while he turned from Zedwitz to Hamilton, and then to Hildegarde, as if they, and not Mademoiselle de Hoffmann, occupied his thoughts. “When is it to take place?” asked Zedwitz. “What! ah! my execution? Some time in January, they say; I wish it were sooner.” “Of course you do,” said Zedwitz, laughing. “That is,” said Raimund, the colour mounting to his forehead, “I am afraid, if it be put off long, I shall get tired of the concern, and in the end prove refractory.”