Blanche's heart gave a great leap into her throat,--not perhaps anatomically, but so far as her sensations were concerned. She played for a minute with her gold chain in silence. But the way in which the question was put roused all her better feelings; and when the first unpleasant thrill was past, her eyes looked up honestly into his. "I cannot say nay, Father, and tell truth." "Well said, my lass, and bravely. How far hath it gone, Blanche?" Blanche's chain came into requisition again. She was silent. "Hath he spoken plainly of wedding thee?" "I think so," said Blanche faintly. "Didst give him any encouragement thereto?" was the next question-- gravely, but not angrily asked. If Blanche had spoken the simple truth, she would have said "Plenty." But she dared not. She looked intently at the floor, and murmured something about "perhaps" and "a little." Her father sighed. Her mother appeared engrossed with the play. "And yet once tell me, Blanche--hath he at all endeavoured himself to persuade thee to accordance with his religion? Hath he given thee any gifts, such as a cross, or a relic-case, or the like?" Blanche would have given a good deal to run away. But there was no chance of it. She must stand her ground; and not only that, but she must reply to this exceedingly awkward question. Don Juan had given her one or two little things, she faltered, leaving the more important points untouched. Was her father annoyed at her accepting them? She had no intention of vexing him. "Thou hast not vexed me, my child," he said kindly. "But I am troubled--grievously troubled and sorrowful. And the heavier part of my question, Blanche, thou hast not dealt withal." "Which part, Father?" She knew well enough. She only wanted to gain time. "Hath this young man tampered with thy faith?" "He hath once and again spoken thereof," she allowed. "Spoken what, my maid?" Blanche's words, it was evident, came very unwillingly. "He hath shown me divers matters wherein the difference is but little," she contrived to say. Sir Thomas groaned audibly. "God help and pardon me, to have left my lamb thus unguarded!" he murmured to himself. "O Blanche, Blanche!" "What is it, Father?" she said, looking up in some trepidation. "Tell me, my daughter,--should it give thee very great sorrow, if thou wert never to see this young man again?" "What, Father?--O Father!" "My poor child!" he sighed. "My poor, straying, unguarded child!" Blanche was almost frightened. Her father seemed to her to be coming out in entirely a new character. At this juncture Lady Enville laid down the comedy, and thought proper to interpose. "Doth Don John love thee, Blanche?" Blanche felt quite sure of that, and she intimated as much, but in a very low voice. "And thou lovest him?" With a good many knots and twists of the gold chain, Blanche confessed this also.