“I quite agree with you,” said Hildegarde, “and have not the slightest wish to speak of it to anyone, not even to my father, for, never having spoken to him about Oscar, my confidence, coming too late, might offend him, as it did about Count Zedwitz.” “You will have to make a great effort, and conceal every appearance of agitation from your sister and Madame Lustig,” said Hamilton. “I think we had better avoid the proposed supper at Madame Berger’s. Give me your capuchin, and I will bring you your bonnet and cloak.” Hildegarde seated herself on the stairs, and leaned her face on her hands. Hamilton’s appearance without her caused instantaneous and great alarm; but when he said she was waiting for them on the stairs, they became almost angry. “So she won’t come to supper!” cried Madame Berger. “Just like her, an eternal spoilsport.” “I fear she has caught cold,” said Hamilton, looking round for the cloak; “you forget how long she has been in the streets in her light dress.” “But,” said Madame Lustig, “she must say she caught cold making the ice-cream at the passage-window. I shall never have courage to confess that we have been at this masquerade, and that she has been running about the streets at this hour of night. Was she far from the theatre when you met her?” “I found her in —— Street,” replied Hamilton, evasively, and beginning to heap up cloaks and boas on his arm. “Not so fast, if you please,” cried Madame Lustig. “Give me my cloak—I have no fancy for catching cold.” “This is too provoking,” exclaimed Madame Berger; “I thought we should have had such a merry supper; the Doctor in bed, and everything so nice! Take a glass of wine, at least, before you go, Mr. Hamilton.” He quickly drank the wine, and then ran downstairs. Hildegarde stood up, and allowed him to put the cloak on her shoulders, fasten it, throw her boa round her throat, and even place her bonnet on her head; she merely asked: “Are they coming?” “Hildegarde,” cried Madame Berger, who accompanied the others with a candle in her hand, “I take it very ill of you to spoil my supper in this manner; you might have come up, if only for half an hour.” “You have caught cold—you are ill,” whispered Hamilton in English. “I am sorry to spoil your supper party, Lina, but I am really ill, and must go home,” said Hildegarde, in so constrained and husky a voice that Madame Lustig, mistaking it for hoarseness, hurried down the stairs, exclaiming: “Good gracious, the child can hardly speak! What will her father say to me?” About an hour after, while Hamilton was still walking uneasily up and down his room, he heard some one knock at the door. On opening it he was scarcely surprised to see Hildegarde. No trace of colour had returned to her face, but her features had regained their usual calm, statue-like expression. “I knew I should still find you in this room,” she said, with a faint smile. “You may give me my letter; I can read it now.”