"Now really, Sir Thomas, what would you?" suggested his wife, re-opening the discussion. "Could there be a better establishing for the maiden than so? 'Twere easy to lay down rule, and win his promise, that he should not seek to disturb her faith in no wise. Many have done the like--" "And suffered bitterly by reason thereof." "Nay, now!--why so? You see the child's heart is set thereon. Be ruled by me, I pray you, and leave your fantastical objections, and go seek Don John. Make him to grant you oath, on the honour of a Spanish gentleman, that Blanche shall be allowed the free using of her own faith--and what more would you?" "If thou send me to seek him, Orige, I shall measure swords with him." Blanche uttered a little scream. Lady Enville laughed her soft, musical laugh--the first thing which had originally attracted her husband's fancy to her, eighteen years before. "I marvel wherefore!" she said, laying down the play, and taking up her pomander--a ball of scented drugs, enclosed in a golden network, which hung from her girdle by a gold chain. "Wherefore?" repeated Sir Thomas more warmly. "For plucking my fairest flower, when I had granted unto him but shelter in my garden-house!" "He has not plucked it yet," said Lady Enville, handling the pomander delicately, so that too much scent should not escape at once. "He hath done as ill," replied Sir Thomas shortly. Lady Enville calmly inhaled the fragrance, as if nothing more serious than itself were on her mind. Blanche sat still, playing with her chain, but looking troubled and afraid, and casting furtive glances at her father, who was pacing slowly up and down the room. "Orige," he said suddenly, "can Blanche make her ready to leave home?-- and how soon?" Blanche looked up fearfully. "What wis I, Sir Thomas?" languidly answered the lady. "I reckon she could be ready in a month or so. Where would you have her go?" "A month! I mean to-night." "To-night, Sir Thomas! 'Tis not possible. Why, she hath scantly a gown fit to show." "She must go, nathless, Orige. And it shall be to the parsonage. They will do it, I know. And Clare must go with her." "The parsonage!" said Lady Enville contemptuously. "Oh ay, she can go there any hour. They should scantly know whether she wear satin or grogram. Call for Clare, if you so desire it--she must see to the gear." "Canst not thou, Orige?" "I, Sir Thomas!--with my feeble health!" And Lady Enville looked doubly languid as she let her head sink back among the cushions. Sir Thomas looked at her for a minute, sighed again, and then, opening the door, called out two or three names. Barbara answered, and he bade her "Send hither Mistress Clare." Clare was rather startled when she presented herself at the boudoir door. Blanche, she saw, was in trouble of some kind; Lady Enville looked annoyed, after her languid fashion; and the grave, sad look of Sir Thomas was an expression as new to Clare as it had been to the others.