“Then,” said I, reaching the main point at last, “as you think we are endurable to her—­which of us shall it be?”

“Why, that question is for her to settle,” said Phil, with a smile half-amused, half-surprised.

“But she will have to be asked.  So which of us—?”

“I don’t think it matters,” he replied.  “If she prefers one of us, she will take him and refuse the other, whether he ask first or last.”

“But suppose she likes us equally.  In that case, might not the first asker win, merely for his being first?”

“I think it scarce possible but that in her heart she must favour one above all others, though she may not know it yet.”

“But it seems to me—­”

“’Faith, Bert, do as you like, I sha’n’t say nay, or think nay.  If you ask her, and she accepts you, I shall be sure you are the choice of her heart.  But as for me, I have often thought of the matter, and this is what I’ve come to:  not to speak to her of it, until by some hint or act she shows her preference.”

“But the lady must not make the first step.”

“Not by proposal or direct word, of course—­though I’ll wager there have been exceptions to that; but I’ve read, and believe from what I’ve seen, that ’tis oftenest the lady that gives the first hint.  No doubt, she has already made sure of the gentleman’s feelings, by signs he doesn’t know of.  If a man didn’t receive some leading on from a woman, how would he dare tell her his mind?—­for if he loves her he must dread her refusal, or scorn, beyond all things.  However that be, I’ve seen, in companies, and at the play, and even in church, how girls contrive to show their partiality to the fellows they prefer.  Why, we’ve both had it happen to us, when we were too young for the fancy to last.  And ’tis the same, I’ll wager, when the girls are women, and the stronger feeling has come, the kind that lasts.  Be sure a girl as clever as Margaret will find a way of showing it, if she has set her mind on either of us.  And so, I’m resolved to wait for some sign from her before I speak.”

He went on to explain that this course would prolong, to the unfortunate one, the possession of the pleasures of hope.  It would save him, and Margaret, from the very unpleasant incident of a rejection.  Such a refusal must always leave behind it a certain bitterness in the memory, that will touch what friendship remains between the two people concerned.  And I know Philip’s wish that, though he might not be her choice, his old friendship with her might continue perfectly unmarred, was what influenced him to avoid a possible scene of refusal.

“Then I shall do as you do,” said I, “and if I see any sign, either in my favour or yours, be sure I’ll tell you.”

“I was just about to propose that,” said Phil; and we resumed our fencing.