This was the letter that had flashed like a ray of sun into the scheme of things for Blanche, and whose salient portions—­by which she meant those directly affecting herself—­she repeated over and over.  “A very rich young man ... educated at Cambridge, I am told ... cannot blame the poor young man if he does not fall in love down here ... it would be different if you were home.  He is just your style.”  That meant the style of man who fell in love with her, now always younger than herself.

“Got bad news, have ’ee, or is it good?” asked Mrs. Penticost, who could contain herself in silence no longer.  She gave up the pretence of dusting and stood frankly looking at her lodger.

“I—­I don’t quite know how to take it, Mrs. Penticost,” temporised Blanche.

“Whisht kind of news that must be,” remarked Mrs. Penticost, who had not watched Miss Grey these past weeks without getting a shrewd idea of the tendency of her thoughts and affections.  “I was wondering whether you weren’t feeling glad that time’s come to go—­if ’ee are going along of Miss Judy?”

There was no answer to this, and Mrs. Penticost, her rosy face set in lines of determination, began again.

“Must be rare and dull for ’ee down here after London, though there was that ball in to Penzance t’other night.  Dance weth Maister Ruan, ded ’ee, my dear?  They do say he handles his feet some pretty.  I remember when I was a maid I was all for a man who could do that.  I got as far as walking arm-a-crook weth a chap wance, and, thought I, ’I won’t go for to ask he to step in till I do know if he can dance wi’ I.’  Some trouble I ded have keepen’ he quiet till there was a gala and us could dance.  Primitive Wesleyan, the gala was.  He was all for me maken’ up my mind long before, and I wouldn’ have un till I knew, nor yet I wouldn’ let un go.  ‘Must keep cousins weth he or he’ll go off,’ I thought; and so I ded, my dear, just managed it nicely.  I gave the go-bye to a fine-looken chap from St. Just to dance wi’ my man, and then I found that he never danced toall, and hadn’t dared tell me.  Mad as fire I was, and abused him worse than dung.  But you couldn’ ever go for to lay that complaint against Maister Ruan, nor yet any other, I should say.”

“Mr. Ruan is all that is good and splendid, of course, Mrs. Penticost,” said Blanche, folding up her letter.

“He is that, sure ’nough, and it’ll be a bad day for the woman that ever does him a hurt, him that has had enough already to turn his very heart grey in his breast.  I wouldn’ like to see no woman do that.”

“Mightn’t it be better than making him unhappier in the long run by not doing him a hurt now, as you call it?” asked Blanche.

“If he but knew what was best for him, ’tes a sharp hurt and soon auver,” said Mrs. Penticost frankly; “but he’m like all men, naught but a cheild that cries for the moon, and a woman as has a heart would sooner see a man getten’ what he wants, even when ’tes bad for ’en, than see him eaten’ his soul away with longing.  There’s a deal of satisfaction in maken’ our own unhappiness, and a man has that to console him.”