“What!” she exclaimed, “do you think the gift of discovery runs in the family?” Arnold made a plunge. “I wish it did!” he said. Blanche looked the picture of astonishment. “Why?” she asked. “If you could see in my face what Sir Patrick saw--” He had only to finish the sentence, and the thing was done. But the tender passion perversely delights in raising obstacles to itself. A sudden timidity seized on Arnold exactly at the wrong moment. He stopped short, in the most awkward manner possible. Blanche heard from the lawn the blow of the mallet on the ball, and the laughter of the company at some blunder of Sir Patrick’s. The precious seconds were slipping away. She could have boxed Arnold on both ears for being so unreasonably afraid of her. “Well,” she said, impatiently, “if I did look in your face, what should I see?” Arnold made another plunge. He answered: “You would see that I want a little encouragement.” “From _me?_” “Yes--if you please.” Blanche looked back over her shoulder. The summer-house stood on an eminence, approached by steps. The players on the lawn beneath were audible, but not visible. Any one of them might appear, unexpectedly, at a moment’s notice. Blanche listened. There was no sound of approaching footsteps--there was a general hush, and then another bang of the mallet on the ball and then a clapping of hands. Sir Patrick was a privileged person. He had been allowed, in all probability, to try again; and he was succeeding at the second effort. This implied a reprieve of some seconds. Blanche looked back again at Arnold. “Consider yourself encouraged,” she whispered; and instantly added, with the ineradicable female instinct of self-defense, “within limits!” Arnold made a last plunge--straight to the bottom, this time. “Consider yourself loved,” he burst out, “without any limits at all.” It was all over--the words were spoken--he had got her by the hand. Again the perversity of the tender passion showed itself more strongly than ever. The confession which Blanche had been longing to hear, had barely escaped her lover’s lips before Blanche protested against it! She struggled to release her hand. She formally appealed to Arnold to let her go. Arnold only held her the tighter. “Do try to like me a little!” he pleaded. “I am so fond of _you!_” Who was to resist such wooing as this?--when you were privately fond of him yourself, remember, and when you were certain to be interrupted in another moment! Blanche left off struggling, and looked up at her young sailor with a smile. “Did you learn this method of making love in the merchant-service?” she inquired, saucily. Arnold persisted in contemplating his prospects from the serious point of view. “I’ll go back to the merchant-service,” he said, “if I have made you angry with me.” Blanche administered another dose of encouragement.