Among the personal privileges which Nature has accorded to women, there are surely none more enviable than their privilege of always looking their best when they look at the man they love.  When Blanche’s eyes turned on Arnold after her uncle had gone out, not even the hideous fashionable disfigurements of the inflated “chignon” and the tilted hat could destroy the triple charm of youth, beauty, and tenderness beaming in her face.  Arnold looked at her—­and remembered, as he had never remembered yet, that he was going by the next train, and that he was leaving her in the society of more than one admiring man of his own age.  The experience of a whole fortnight passed under the same roof with her had proved Blanche to be the most charming girl in existence.  It was possible that she might not be mortally offended with him if he told her so.  He determined that he would tell her so at that auspicious moment.

But who shall presume to measure the abyss that lies between the Intention and the Execution?  Arnold’s resolution to speak was as firmly settled as a resolution could be.  And what came of it?  Alas for human infirmity!  Nothing came of it but silence.

“You don’t look quite at your ease, Mr. Brinkworth,” said Blanche.  “What has Sir Patrick been saying to you?  My uncle sharpens his wit on every body.  He has been sharpening it on you?"

Arnold began to see his way.  At an immeasurable distance—­but still he saw it.

“Sir Patrick is a terrible old man,” he answered.  “Just before you came in he discovered one of my secrets by only looking in my face.”  He paused, rallied his courage, pushed on at all hazards, and came headlong to the point.  “I wonder,” he asked, bluntly, “whether you take after your uncle?”

Blanche instantly understood him.  With time at her disposal, she would have taken him lightly in hand, and led him, by fine gradations, to the object in view.  But in two minutes or less it would be Arnold’s turn to play.  “He is going to make me an offer,” thought Blanche; “and he has about a minute to do it in.  He shall do it!”

“What!” she exclaimed, “do you think the gift of discovery runs in the family?”

Arnold made a plunge.

“I wish it did!” he said.

Blanche looked the picture of astonishment.

“Why?” she asked.

“If you could see in my face what Sir Patrick saw—­”

He had only to finish the sentence, and the thing was done.  But the tender passion perversely delights in raising obstacles to itself.  A sudden timidity seized on Arnold exactly at the wrong moment.  He stopped short, in the most awkward manner possible.

Blanche heard from the lawn the blow of the mallet on the ball, and the laughter of the company at some blunder of Sir Patrick’s.  The precious seconds were slipping away.  She could have boxed Arnold on both ears for being so unreasonably afraid of her.