Sir Hastings, who had looked for girlish confusion, is somewhat disconcerted by this open patronage.
"May I" says he--"You _permit_ me then to tell you what I have so long feared to disclose.

I"-- dramatically--_"love you!"_ He is standing over her, his hand on the back of her chair, waiting for the swift blush, the tremor, the usual signs that follow on one of his declarations.

Alas! there is no blush now, no tremor, no sign at all.
"That is very good of you," says Perpetua, in an even tone.

She moves a little away from him, but otherwise shows no emotion whatever.

"The more so, in that it must be so difficult for you to love a person in fourteen days! Ah! that is kind, indeed." A curious light comes into Sir Hastings' eyes.