“Oh, of course—but I thought you would naturally say something about my having bestowed a glance of nearly the same kind on you, when mamma talked of the pork-chops and my father’s illness the day of his marriage; that was in fact more reprehensible than the other, and shall not occur again.” She paused for a moment, and then continued: “When you came for me to the Hoffmanns’ to-day, I had just returned that unlucky book of poems to Oscar, and to prevent an unpleasant scene in our house, I partly told him what mamma had said—he, however, resolved immediately to try what he could do with papa, who he knew was too gentlemanlike to be rude to him. I suppose he overheard me tell Marie where we were going this evening, and followed—his success was complete, it seems, and I could not resist the temptation to let him know that I perceived and was glad of it. What else?” she asked, gayly. “Your mother seemed to think it was odd that Zedwitz always knew where you were to spend the evening. Have you ever in any way let him know, or——” “Really, this is too much,” cried Hildegarde, angrily; “I will not be questioned in this manner—or on this subject——” “You are right,” said Hamilton, quietly, “and I resign my most absurd office of corrector and improver. You have, however, no just cause for anger, for you not only proposed the plan yourself, but reminded me of my promise.” He leaned out of the window, and had recourse again to _Fra Diavolo_ and the moon. “You are a horrible tyrant!” she exclaimed after a pause, “and I suppose, if I leave your question unanswered, you will think me capable of making Count Zedwitz acquainted with all our walking-parties!” “What matters it what I think?” said Hamilton, without turning round. “Your question is exceedingly offensive, and yet I must answer it, and tell you that I am as much surprised as mamma at meeting him so often. If I could avoid seeing him, I should greatly prefer it.” “Indeed!” cried Hamilton. “Then you have no wish to renew the—the——” “None whatever,” replied Hildegarde, smiling. “But if you think so highly of him,” persisted Hamilton, “surely you must like him!” “Like him!” she repeated, “why, have I not told you that I like him exceedingly?” “Something to that purport, certainly,” said Hamilton; “you are altogether inexplicable, and I dare not ask an explanation.” “You have no right,” said Hildegarde; “what occurred before yesterday does not come under your cognisance.” “I am completely at fault,” said Hamilton, in a low voice, as if reasoning with himself. “Zedwitz told me that you had said you liked him as an acquaintance, but nothing more. This, I know, is not the case; therefore there must be some misunderstanding—he suspected a prior attachment, but that seemed to me improbable.” “Rather say impossible,” cried Hildegarde, laughing, “for the object of it must have been either Major Stultz—or you! ha, ha, ha!”