Enville reclined in her chair, engaged again with her comedy, as though she had said all that could be said on the subject under discussion. Sir Thomas stood leaning against the jamb of the chimney-piece, gazing sadly into the fire.
“Meg saith you seek me, Father.”
“I do, my child.”
His grave tone chilled Blanche’s highly-wrought feelings with a vague anticipation of coming evil. He set a chair for her, with a courtesy which he always showed to a woman, not excluding his daughters.
“Sit, Blanche: we desire to know somewhat of thee.”
The leaves of the play in Lady Enville’s hand fluttered; but she had just sense enough not to speak.
“Blanche, look me in the face, and answer truly:—Hath there been any passage of love betwixt Don John and thee?”
Blanche’s heart gave a great leap into her throat,—not perhaps anatomically, but so far as her sensations were concerned. She played for a minute with her gold chain in silence. But the way in which the question was put roused all her better feelings; and when the first unpleasant thrill was past, her eyes looked up honestly into his.
“I cannot say nay, Father, and tell truth.”