“Blanche!” he said, in that hard, constrained tone which denotes not want of feeling, but the endeavour to hide it.
“Blanche is in the garden, Father,” said Margaret, coming out of the hall. “Shall I seek her for you?”
“Ay, bid her come, my lass,” said he quietly.
Margaret looked up inquiringly, in consequence of her father’s unusual tone; but he gave her no explanation, and she went to call Blanche.
That young lady was engaged at the moment in a deeply interesting conversation with Don Juan upon the terrace. They had been exchanging locks of hair, and vows of eternal fidelity. Margaret’s approaching step was heard just in time to resume an appearance of courteous composure; and Don Juan, who was possessed of remarkable versatility, observed as she came up to them—
“The clouds be a-gathering, Doña Blanca. Methinks there shall be rain ere it be long.”
“How now, Meg?—whither away?” asked Blanche, with as much calmness as she could assume; but she was by no means so clever an actor as her companion.
“Father calleth thee, Blanche, from Mother’s bower.”
“How provoking!” said Blanche to herself. Aloud she answered, “Good; I thank thee, Meg.”
Blanche sauntered slowly into the boudoir. Lady