‘Another thing I was a-thinkin’ of,’ he pursued, ‘I told you Nell Wyatt thought a deal o’ your opinions, an’ so on. Well, you can talk confidential to her, same as if she really was your own sister, an’ I thought, p’raps, you wouldn’t mind doin’ me a turn by sayin’ a good word for me an’ lettin’ me know ’ow she takes it?’

Dave did not reply immediately; yet Bob Harris had done him many friendly services, and he was not ungrateful.

‘I doubt—whether it would be much use,’ he faltered, huskily. ‘Hadn’t you better—speak to her—yourself?’

‘I ain’t got the pluck, that’s a fact,’ cried Bob. ‘If I knew it was all right, then I’d do it like a shot. But if she ain’t got to care for me yet, it ’ud be best to wait a bit longer afore I tries my luck. If she was to say “No”, it ’ud break my ’art; it would that!’

‘If you think anything I could say—’

‘That’s it. She thinks a deal o’ you. I’d like you to say to her like this: “Miss Wyatt,” says you, “I happen to know a young bloke what’s fonder of a particular gal I know than any other gal on earth. He’s fair struck.” Put it delicate, like that. “Oh?” says she. “Yes,” says you, “he’s been ’ankerin’ after her for a rare long while, but ’e ain’t got the pluck to tell her.” Then if she blushes an’ looks pleased, you can bet it’s all right. “He said ’e was sure you’d guessed it,” says you. “Who is he?” says she. “It’s Bob ’Arris downstairs,” says you; “I know ’im well for a steady-goin’ chap as any man need be, I do.” Something nice, like that. “If he was to arst you,” says you, confidential, “what d’ yer think of him?” You can let me know what she says, an’ I can speak out or shut up according. See?’ Dave was a little ashamed of his own ungraciousness, he was so long in replying and so grudgingly gave the promise that was required of him.

‘Will you try it this evening? I dessay you’ll have a chance when she looks in to clear away the tea things,’ Bob observed eagerly. ‘Anyhow, I’ll nip up a bit later an’ see if she’s said anything. Eh?’

Dave nodded mechanically, and was glad to be left alone.

He felt it was the wildest folly to be hankering wistfully, as he was, after those unforgotten whisperings of his heart which it would, mayhap, have been happier for him if he had never heard. He had taken refuge in a dull resignation; he had told himself a thousand times that there was not, there could not be hope for him any longer, and yet now—

‘I thought I heard Mr Harris go down.’

Nell was looking in upon him from the doorway. He threw off his depression and assumed an air of gaiety that was but too obviously forced.

‘Nell,’ he cried, bent upon carrying out his undertaking without allowing himself further time for thought or uncertainty; ‘I have got something very particular to say to you.’

She put her filled tray back on the table, and stood waiting for him to continue.

‘I wanted to tell you;’ his voice was not so steady as he had meant it to be; a strange bewilderment came upon him suddenly, and it was only by fortifying himself with a reminiscence of Bob Harris’s ideal dialogue that he avoided breaking down at the very outset; ‘there’s a young fellow I know—who—who thinks the world of—of a girl that’s—that’s known to me too, but he—well, he daren’t tell her so.’

Nell caught her breath, and the colour left her face and then came tingling back again, but she did not speak.