“You misunderstand, Sir Ascot,” at last she stammered out; “I didn’t mean--that is--I meant, or rather I intended--to--to--to--decline--or, I should say--in short, _I couldn’t for the world_!” With which unequivocal declaration Blanche blushed once more up to her eyes, and to her inexpressible relief, put her arm within Major D’Orville’s, that officer coming up opportunely at that moment; and seeing the girl’s obvious confusion and annoyance, extricating her, as he seemed always to do, from her unpleasant dilemma and her matter-of-fact swain. And this was Blanche’s first proposal. Nothing so alarming in it, young ladies, after all. We fear you may be disappointed at the blunt manner in which so momentous a question can be put. Here was no language of flowers--no giving of roses and receiving of carnations--no hoarding of locks of hair, or secreting of bracelets, or kidnapping of gloves--none of the petty larceny of courtship--none of the dubious, half-expressed, sentimental flummery which _may_ signify all that mortal heart can bestow, or _may_ be the mere coquetry of conventional gallantry. When _he_ comes to the point, let us hope his meaning may be equally plain, whether it is couched in a wish that he might “be _always_ helping you over stiles,” or a request that you will “give him a _right_ to walk with you by moonlight without being scolded by mamma,” or an inquiry as to whether you “can live in the country, and _only_ come to London for three months during the season,” or any other roundabout method of asking a straightforward question. Let us hope, moreover, that the applicant may be _the right one_, and that you may experience, to the extent of actual impossibility, the proverbial difficulty of saying--No.