Hamilton would gladly have revoked his last speech, had it been possible—he felt that anger and jealousy had dictated every word—but it was too late; Hildegarde gave him no time for a recantation, she had left the room with even more than her usual impetuosity. He no longer attempted to deceive himself as to the nature of his feelings towards her; it only remained for him to consider how he should in future act. That she did not care for him was evident, and the little advance which he had made in her good opinion and confidence, he feared he had now lost. For a moment he thought of a retreat to Vienna, but then the idea of flying from an incidental and perfectly harmless flirtation was too absurd! Besides—could he hope that chance would be again so favourable, and place him on the same terms of intimacy with another family? It was not to be expected; so he resolved to remain where he was—but to employ his time differently. He would study more with Biedermann—attend lectures at the university, ride, walk, call at the English Ambassador’s, be presented at court, make acquaintance with the English in Munich, and accept evening invitations. Hildegarde’s indifference should be met with at least apparent indifference on his part, and he would take care she should never discover the interest which he now knew he could not help attaching to her most trifling actions. A low murmuring of suppressed voices from the adjoining room, which he had indistinctly heard, at length ceased altogether, leaving nothing but footsteps of an occasional passenger through the solitary street to break the silence of the night. He felt irritated and impatient, and, hoping that a walk by moonlight might have a tranquillising effect, he turned quickly from the window. Great was his astonishment on discovering Crescenz standing beside him—tears stood in her eyes, as she laid her hand on his arm to detain him, and said in a scarcely audible voice, “I must ask you a question—will you answer me?” “Certainly,” replied Hamilton, much surprised. “Did you tell Major Stultz this evening that you had never admired—never liked me?” “No—I rather think I said I admired both you and your sister exceedingly.” “I know you did,” cried Crescenz, “I heard what you said, and remember it perfectly—and now he—he wants to persuade me that I am mistaken, and assures me you greatly prefer Hildegarde, and that you said so to him most explicitly this evening!” “Must I then account for every idle word!” cried Hamilton, impatiently. “Surely it ought to be a matter of indifference to you what I said!” “Hush—do not speak so loud—he is there.” “Who?” “Major Stultz. He is waiting for me. I have such reliance on you, that I have told him I cannot believe what he has said. And now answer my question quickly. Have you ceased to care for me? and do you prefer Hildegarde?”