It occurs to her that he is singularly dull, poor man.
"Go on," says she.

She nods her head at him with much encouragement.
Her encouragement falls short.

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 longed, 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.