She held him fast by the arm. The hurried parting before other people seemed to be not a parting to Blanche’s taste.
“You will lose the train!” cried Sir Patrick.
Geoffrey seized Arnold by the arm which Blanche was holding, and tore him—literally tore him—away. The two were out of sight, in the shrubbery, before Blanche’s indignation found words, and addressed itself to her uncle.
“Why is that brute going away with Mr. Brinkworth?” she asked.
“Mr. Delamayn is called to London by his father’s illness,” replied Sir Patrick. “You don’t like him?”
“I hate him!”
Sir Patrick reflected a little.
“She is a young girl of eighteen,” he thought to himself. “And I am an old man of seventy. Curious, that we should agree about any thing. More than curious that we should agree in disliking Mr. Delamayn.”
He roused himself, and looked again at Blanche. She was seated at the table, with her head on her hand; absent, and out of spirits—thinking of Arnold, and set, with the future all smooth before them, not thinking happily.
“Why, Blanche! Blanche!” cried Sir Patrick, “one would think he had gone for a voyage round the world. You silly child! he will be back again the day after to-morrow.”