“How on earth can you expect Mr. Hamilton to swallow such slop as this!” cried Madame Berger, raising the cover as she spoke.
“The carriage is at the door,” said Hans.
“Come,” cried Madame Berger, laughing, “you have no time to drink this hot water at present, and if you do not make haste I must decline going with you to admire your skating, for it will be too late for me. Have you courage?” she asked, giving Hamilton a look of intelligence.
Hildegarde had perceived that he wished to avoid drinking the beef-tea. She had placed it on the table, and was now standing near the stove apparently tranquil, but a slight contraction of her brows, and the extraordinary brilliancy of her eyes as she followed the motions of each speaker betrayed the anger with which she was struggling.
“I perceive you are annoyed,” said Zedwitz, when about to leave the room; “but,” he added, quickly, while the colour mounted to his temples, “you need not be uneasy about your patient; I will bring him back as soon as possible.”
“You are mistaken as to the cause of my annoyance,” said Hildegarde, with a forced smile; “I am angry with myself for having been such a fool as to prepare that soup.”
“You must excuse Hamilton this time. Madame Berger is such an impertinent little person!” said Zedwitz, as he closed the door.
In the meantime Hamilton had nearly descended the stairs. “I can tell you,” said Madame Berger, “that Hildegarde is in a towering passion. Did you not see her eyes flashing, and her lips grow blue? I should not wonder if at this moment she were literally dancing in your room!”
“I should like to see her,” said Hamilton, stopping suddenly.
“But if you go back you will have to swallow the soup as a peace-offering,” said Madame Berger.
“Do you think so? Zedwitz, will you assist Madame Berger into the carriage?—I must return to Hildegarde; but I promise not to detain you more than a minute.” He rushed up the stairs as he spoke, entered without noise by means of his skeleton key, and, passing through his bedroom, was able to ascertain the partial truth of Madame Berger’s assertion. Hildegarde was walking up and down the room with flushed cheeks, talking angrily to herself, and pushing everything that came in her way. “What a fool—what an egregious fool I was—to make a fire with my own hands to warm that soup!” She kicked the leg of the table as she spoke, making the plates and spoons clatter. “If ever I warm soup for him again I hope, yes, I _hope_, I may burn my arm as I have done this time.” She raised her sleeve and looked frowningly at the suffering limb, which in fact was extremely red and covered with blisters. While she endeavoured with her handkerchief to remove the long streaks of smut which still bore testimony to the origin of the mischief, Hamilton advanced; and, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, seized her hand, and held it firmly, while he gulped down the soup as fast as he was able. It was, as Madame Berger had said, very hot; and when he had deposited the bowl on the plate, tears actually stood in his eyes from the excess of his exertions.
