“I knew,” cried Crescenz, “I knew he did not really care for the ballet.” “Excuse me, but I do care for the ballet, and I should care more for it if the dancers were prettier, and had not such thick ankles!” “Smooth waters run deep,” said Major Stultz. “It is a pity, Crescenz, your mother did not hear that speech, she would hardly have believed her own ears!” “Why not?” said Hamilton. “Do you mean to say that you do not, or did not formerly, like seeing a ballet and pretty women too?” “We will not discuss this subject in the presence of the young ladies,” said Major Stultz. “There is nothing to discuss,” said Hamilton, carelessly; “I like seeing pretty faces, and pretty ankles, and graceful figures, and I believe I am not singular in my taste; perhaps, however, you prefer the flowing hair which will be exhibited to-night. By-the-by, one girl has the very longest and thickest hair I ever saw. Have you not observed it?” “Yes; Crescenz’s, however, is nearly as long, I should think,” replied Major Stultz, touching the thick plaits which were wound round the back of her head. “She would make a charming ballet-dancer in every respect,” murmured Hamilton in French, while he laughingly glanced at her. “What does he say?” asked Major Stultz, who observed that Crescenz blushed and smiled alternately. “What does he say?” “To think of his caring so much for a ballet!” answered Crescenz, evasively, while she still blushed, and then laughed as she added, “and you know all mamma said about his being religious, and not going out in the evenings, or on Sunday to the theatre.” “I suspect your mother has a better opinion of him than he deserves,” whispered Major Stultz. Crescenz, however, shook her head so incredulously, or so coquettishly, that he added, “Do not think me jealous; it is impossible, now that I know who is the real object of his devotion.” “Ah, you mean Hildegarde,” said Crescenz, carelessly. “Oh, no.” “Who then?” asked Crescenz, turning towards him quickly, curiosity depicted in every feature, “who?” “I can scarcely tell you—as he has chosen a married woman——” Crescenz looked aghast. Major Stultz’s jealousy conquered his usual circumspection—the moment was too favourable for making an impression—he bent towards her and whispered, “No other than your friend, Madame Berger.” “Impossible!” “Certain, nevertheless. When your mother forbade his returning here, he was invited to spend his disengaged evenings at her house. He knows the Doctor well; besides, Berger is Zedwitz’s physician, and they have often met lately. Had the thing been feasible, Hamilton would, I have no doubt, have taken up his quarters in their house!”