“Trust me; I only hope you will be always equally discreet: but now--when shall it be? Should you like to consider the matter more?” “Oh, no, nothing of the kind; let it be to-morrow, at once, if I am to fail; even that--anything’s better than suspense.” “Well, then, to-morrow be it,” said I. So I wished him a good-night, and a stout heart to hear his fortune withal. CHAPTER XLVIII. A MISTAKE. I ordered my horses at an early hour; and long before Sparks--lover that he was--had opened his eyes to the light, was already on my way towards Gurt-na-Morra. Several miles slipped away before I well determined how I should open my negotiations: whether to papa Blake, in the first instance, or to madame, to whose peculiar province these secrets of the home department belonged; or why not at once to Baby?--because, after all, with her it rested finally to accept or refuse. To address myself to the heads of the department seemed the more formal course; and as I was acting entirely as an “envoy extraordinary,” I deemed this the fitting mode of proceeding. It was exactly eight o’clock as I drove up to the door. Mr. Blake was standing at the open window of the breakfast-room, sniffing the fresh air of the morning. The Blake mother was busily engaged with the economy of the tea-table; a very simple style of morning costume, and a nightcap with a flounce like a petticoat, marking her unaffected toilet. Above stairs, more than one head _en papillate_ took a furtive peep between the curtains; and the butler of the family, in corduroys and a fur cap, was weeding turnips in the lawn before the door.