"I'll take her myself," he repeated. "I'll go and see her myself, and explain the necessity of it—if she does not know all."
"She does not know all yet," said Tredennis, "and I think she was scarcely inclined to go to the ball; but I am sure it will be better that she should go."
"She will go," said Blundel, abruptly. "I'll make her. She knows me. She will go if I tell her she must. That is what comes of being an old fellow, you see, and not a lady's man."
He had not any doubt of his success with her, and, to tell the truth, neither had Colonel Tredennis. He saw that his blunt honesty and unceremonious, half-paternal domineering would prove to her that he was in the right, even if she were at first reluctant; and this being settled, and the matter left in Blundel's hands, the colonel went away. Only before going he said a few words, rather awkwardly.
"There would be nothing to be gained by mentioning my name," he said. "It is mere accident that—that I chance to know what I have spoken of. She does not know that I know it. I should prefer that she should not."
"What!" said Blundel,—"she is not to know how you have been standing by her?"
"She knows that I would stand by her if she needed me. She does not need me; she needs you. I have nothing to do with the matter. I don't wish to be mentioned."
When he was gone Blundel rubbed his hair backward and then forward by way of variety.
"Queer fellow!" he said, meditatively. "Not quite sure I've exactly got at him yet. Brave as a lion and shy as a boy. Absolutely afraid of women."