“I will try and explain myself a little better. Geoffrey said your position here depended on my asking for you at the door (as _he_ would have asked for you if he had come) in the character of your husband.” “He had no right to say that.” “No right? After what you have told me of the landlady, just think what might have happened if he had _not_ said it! I haven’t had much experience myself of these things. But--allow me to ask--wouldn’t it have been a little awkward (at my age) if I had come here and inquired for you as a friend? Don’t you think, in that case, the landlady might have made some additional difficulty about letting you have the rooms?” It was beyond dispute that the landlady would have refused to let the rooms at all. It was equally plain that the deception which Arnold had practiced on the people of the inn was a deception which Anne had herself rendered necessary, in her own interests. She was not to blame; it was clearly impossible for her to have foreseen such an event as Geoffrey’s departure for London. Still, she felt an uneasy sense of responsibility--a vague dread of what might happen next. She sat nervously twisting her handkerchief in her lap, and made no answer. “Don’t suppose I object to this little stratagem,” Arnold went on. “I am serving my old friend, and I am helping the lady who is soon to be his wife.” Anne rose abruptly to her feet, and amazed him by a very unexpected question. “Mr. Brinkworth,” she said, “forgive me the rudeness of something I am about to say to you. When are you going away?” Arnold burst out laughing. “When I am quite sure I can do nothing more to assist you,” he answered. “Pray don’t think of _me_ any longer.” “In your situation! who else am I to think of?” Anne laid her hand earnestly on his arm, and answered: “Blanche!” “Blanche?” repeated Arnold, utterly at a loss to understand her. “Yes--Blanche. She found time to tell me what had passed between you this morning before I left Windygates. I know you have made her an offer: I know you are engaged to be married to her.” Arnold was delighted to hear it. He had been merely unwilling to leave her thus far. He was absolutely determined to stay with her now. “Don’t expect me to go after that!” he said. “Come and sit down again, and let’s talk about Blanche.” Anne declined impatiently, by a gesture. Arnold was too deeply interested in the new topic to take any notice of it. “You know all about her habits and her tastes,” he went on, “and what she likes, and what she dislikes. It’s most important that I should talk to you about her. When we are husband and wife, Blanche is to have all her own way in every thing. That’s my idea of the Whole Duty of Man--when Man is married. You are still standing? Let me give you a chair.”