“Not quite,” said Hamilton, lightly; “I really had a heart at my disposal some time ago; younger sons are allowed to have hearts in England, and to give them away as they please; few people here think it worth while to accept so worthless a thing as a heart alone. In Germany, the same rational idea seems to prevail——” “Not so,” cried Hildegarde, warmly; “a heart is always of value—must be of value to every one, especially to every woman.” “You are making a collection of such valuables, I think,” said Hamilton. “Your cousin’s has been forced upon you; Zedwitz’s, to say the least, you tacitly accepted; what you intend to do with mine——” “I must go home now,” said Hildegarde, glancing uneasily down the street; “it may be remarked if I stand here so long with you——” “Do not be alarmed,” said Hamilton, smiling; “I have no intention of ever again favouring you with avowals of affection as absurd as useless. You are quite right not to listen to me, but you must have the kindness not to listen to my midnight representatives either. Such men must not speak for me.” “Do not think about that any more,” said Hildegarde; “I dislike the recollection of my stupidity.” “If I only knew who it was,” said Hamilton, contracting his brows. “You possibly suspect Oscar, but when I referred to the subject yesterday evening, he did not in the least understand what I meant, and afterwards denied having seen me from the time I had received my Christmas presents.” “So, then, it was Zedwitz,” said Hamilton, musingly. “I am sorry for it; our friendship is at an end.” “Oh, no,” cried Hildegarde; “perhaps it was not Count Zedwitz; it is not like him to act so; besides, he never speaks French with me, and—and his manners are always so respectful. Oh, no, I do not think—I am quite sure it could not have been Count Zedwitz.” “How can you, who are always so rational and candid, talk so? You know it must have been one or the other; no one else could have any motive for asking those questions; I only wish——” “And I wish,” said Hildegarde, interrupting him, “I wish you would not either think or speak again about this disagreeable affair. Oscar has denied knowing anything about it; therefore you have no pretence to seek a quarrel with him. You have scarcely a right on suspicion to withdraw your friendship from Count Zedwitz.” “On suspicion! No; but I shall certainly ask him if he was on the stairs of your house on Christmas Eve.” “He will say that he was not.” “If he do, I shall believe him.” “And I also,” said Hildegarde, moving onwards. “You think highly of Zedwitz?” “Most highly. I have already told you so.” “And of your cousin?” Hildegarde was silent. “And yet you continue intimate with him, and tolerate his rhapsodies!” “He is my cousin—he loves me—and—if you must know all, I fear him now!” “You! you fear him?”