It did not escape him that she looked flurried and depressed, that her hand trembled, and her colour went and came. Arguing favourably from these symptoms, he was somewhat disappointed with the first sentence she addressed to him.
"You wrote me a letter, General," said she, forcing a nervous little laugh. "Such a funny letter! I didn't quite know what to make of it!"
A funny letter! And his heart had beat, his eyes had filled, his highest, noblest feelings had been stirred with every line!
He was conscious that his bow seemed stern, even pompous, while he answered with exceeding gravity—
"Surely I made my meaning clear enough. Surely, Miss Douglas—Blanche; may I not call you Blanche?"
"Yes; if you like," said she impatiently. "It's a hateful name, I think. That's not my fault. Well, General, what were you going to say?"
He looked and indeed felt perplexed. "I was going to observe," said he, "that as my question was very straightforward, and very much in earnest, so all my future happiness depends on your reply."
"I wonder what there is you can see in me to like!" she retorted, with an impatient movement of her whole body, as if she was in fetters, and felt the restraint. "I'm not good enough for anybody to care for, that's the truth, General. There's hardly a girl in London who wouldn't suit you better than me."
He was looking in her face with sincere admiration.