“Well,” she said, impatiently, “if I did look in your face, what should I see?”

Arnold made another plunge.  He answered:  “You would see that I want a little encouragement.”

“From me?”

“Yes—­if you please.”

Blanche looked back over her shoulder.  The summer-house stood on an eminence, approached by steps.  The players on the lawn beneath were audible, but not visible.  Any one of them might appear, unexpectedly, at a moment’s notice.  Blanche listened.  There was no sound of approaching footsteps—­there was a general hush, and then another bang of the mallet on the ball and then a clapping of hands.  Sir Patrick was a privileged person.  He had been allowed, in all probability, to try again; and he was succeeding at the second effort.  This implied a reprieve of some seconds.  Blanche looked back again at Arnold.

“Consider yourself encouraged,” she whispered; and instantly added, with the ineradicable female instinct of self-defense, “within limits!”

Arnold made a last plunge—­straight to the bottom, this time.

“Consider yourself loved,” he burst out, “without any limits at all.”

It was all over—­the words were spoken—­he had got her by the hand.  Again the perversity of the tender passion showed itself more strongly than ever.  The confession which Blanche had been longing to hear, had barely escaped her lover’s lips before Blanche protested against it!  She struggled to release her hand.  She formally appealed to Arnold to let her go.

Arnold only held her the tighter.

“Do try to like me a little!” he pleaded.  “I am so fond of you!”

Who was to resist such wooing as this?—­when you were privately fond of him yourself, remember, and when you were certain to be interrupted in another moment!  Blanche left off struggling, and looked up at her young sailor with a smile.

“Did you learn this method of making love in the merchant-service?” she inquired, saucily.

Arnold persisted in contemplating his prospects from the serious point of view.

“I’ll go back to the merchant-service,” he said, “if I have made you angry with me.”

Blanche administered another dose of encouragement.

“Anger, Mr. Brinkworth, is one of the bad passions,” she answered, demurely.  “A young lady who has been properly brought up has no bad passions.”

There was a sudden cry from the players on the lawn—­a cry for “Mr. Brinkworth.”  Blanche tried to push him out.  Arnold was immovable.

“Say something to encourage me before I go,” he pleaded.  “One word will do.  Say, Yes.”

Blanche shook her head.  Now she had got him, the temptation to tease him was irresistible.

“Quite impossible!” she rejoined.  “If you want any more encouragement, you must speak to my uncle.”

“I’ll speak to him,” returned Arnold, “before I leave the house.”