rom air to
earth, she determinately and compunctiously set to work again. The
second row of stitches was growing under her hands when, by that subtle
psychological process which makes us aware of the presence of another
person, though we may have heard and seen nothing, Blanche became
conscious that she was no longer alone. She looked up quickly, into the
face of a stranger; but no great penetration was needed to guess that
the young man before her was the shipwrecked Spaniard.

Blanche's first idea on seeing him, was a feeling of wonder that her
father should have thought him otherwise than "well-favoured." He was
handsome enough, she thought, to be the hero of any number of dramas.

The worthy Knight's ideas as to beauty by no means coincided with those
of his daughter. Sir Thomas thought that to look well, a man must not
be--to use his own phrase--"lass-like and finnicking." It was all very
well for a woman to have a soft voice, a pretty face, or a graceful
mien: but let a man be tall, stout, well-developed, and tolerably rough.
So that the finely arched eyebrows, the languishing liquid eyes, the
soft delicate features, and the black silky moustache, which were the
characteristics of Don Juan's face, found no favour with Sir Thomas, but
were absolute perfection in the captivated eyes of Blanche. When those
dark eyes looked admiringly at her, she could see no fault in them; and
when a voice addressed her in flattering terms, she could readily enough
overlook wrong accents and foreign idioms.

"Most beautiful lady!" said Don Juan, addressing himself to Blanche, and
translating literally into English the usual style of his native land.

The epithet gave Blanche a little thrill of delight. No one--except the
mythical inhabitants of the airy castles--had ever spoken to her in this
manner before. And undoubtedly there was a zest in the living voice of
another human being, which was unfortunately lacking in the denizens of
Fairy Land. Blanche had never sunk so low in her own opinion as she did
when she tried to frame an answer. She was utterly at a loss for words.
Instead of the exquisitely appropriate language which would have risen
to her lips at once if she had not addressed a human being, she could
only manage to stammer out, in most prosaic fashion, a hope that he was
better. But her consciousness of inferiority deepened, when Don Juan
replied promptly, with a low bow, and the application of his left hand