“I have the misfortune to be somewhat deaf, Marie, but my eyes are as good as yours, and with these eyes I saw him enter this house.” “You are quite right,” said Raimund, advancing with the easiest manner and most unconcerned smile imaginable. “I knew that Marie had gone out with Madame Rosenberg, and not imagining that my future mother-in-law could be so much interested in my movements, I ventured, without informing her of my intentions, to visit my friend Hamilton.” “But Mr. Hamilton is out riding,” cried Madame de Hoffmann. “Perhaps he _was_ out riding, but I have had the good fortune to find him at home, nevertheless.” “Then he must have come up the other staircase, or I should have seen him through the slit in our door, where I watched you walking upstairs.” “Very possibly,” said Raimund, contemptuously. “Marie,” said Madame de Hoffmann, in what she intended for a whisper, but which was audible to all, “Marie, my child, I don’t believe a word of all this. The Englishman is no more in the house than the man in the moon.” “Confound your suspicions,” muttered Raimund, angrily. “I suppose, then,” he added with a frown, “I shall be obliged, in order to satisfy you, to ask Mr. Hamilton to show himself to the assembled household.” He seemed, however, so very unwilling to make the request, that Madame de Hoffmann’s suspicions received confirmation; she turned from him, saying, with a laugh of derision, “Perhaps Hildegarde can assist you in making him appear!” Her words acted like a charm. Hamilton, who had been an immovable listener of all that had passed, no sooner heard her name mentioned, than he mechanically rose, and taking his hat and whip, issued forth. He forced a smile as he passed the Hoffmanns and Madame Rosenberg, which, on approaching Hildegarde, changed into an expression of contempt that neither her swelled and tearful eyelids nor her excessive paleness could mitigate. After his return home, he remained in his room until supper was announced, and even then delayed some minutes, to insure Madame Rosenberg’s being in the drawing-room when he reached it. She was endeavouring to persuade Hildegarde to leave the stove, near which she was sitting with closed eyes, leaning her head in her hands. “If you would only eat your supper, Hildegarde, it would quite cure your headache, which is probably caused by your having spent the day in a heated room. Next time I shall leave old Hans in charge of the house, for had you been out walking with us as usual, you would have had no headache, I am sure. Don’t you think so too, Mr. Hamilton?” “I think it very probable,” he answered, seating himself beside Madame Rosenberg. “And don’t you think if she took some soup she would be better?” “Perhaps.” “Hildegarde, I insist on your trying it—or go to bed at once. You make your head worse by sitting so close to the stove.”