“I know it,” she said.
“Have you told Harry?”
“No, no,” she said. “You won’t betray me?”
“Morgan will,” said Pen.
“No, he won’t,” said Blanche. “I have promised him—n’importe. Wait until after our marriage—Oh, until after our marriage—Oh, how wretched I am,” said the girl, who had been all smiles, and grace, and gaiety during the evening.
Arthur said, “I beg and implore you to tell Harry. Tell him now. It is no fault of yours. He will pardon you anything. Tell him to-night.”
“And give her this—Il est la—with my love, please; and I beg your pardon for calling you back; and if she will be at Madame Crinoline’s at half-past three, and if Lady Rockminster can spare her, I should so like to drive with her in the park;” and she went in, singing and kissing her little hand, as Morgan the velvet-footed came up the carpeted stair.
Pen heard Blanche’s piano breaking out into brilliant music as he went down to join his uncle; and they walked away together. Arthur briefly told him what he had done. “What was to be done?” he asked.
“What is to be done, begad?” said the old gentleman. “What is to be done but to leave it alone? Begad, let us be thankful,” said the old fellow, with a shudder, “that we are out of the business, and leave it to those it concerns.”
“I hope to Heaven she’ll tell him,” said Pen.