"Well, perhaps I'll try that. I know I've only got an outside chance. She counts me as one of the also-rans."
"Are you really very devoted, old chap? Would you break your heart if it didn't come off?"
Van Buren thought a moment, then said with his scrupulous truthfulness—
"Well, no: I can hardly say that, Harry. I'm not so far gone as all that. But I think she's a very beautiful, charming, well-brought-up young lady—a typical English girl—a June rose, a real peach. She's the ideal of the sort of girl I'd like to marry. But if she's out of my reach—well, I should resign myself."
"Would you try for some one else? There are probably about a million girls just like that, you know, who would be only too delighted."
Van Buren shook his head.
"She's the only girl I should care about marrying. If it doesn't come off I shall go back to New York. And I do wish you'd come with me. A fellow with your talents would do splendidly there. Why, I'd find you a place in the Bank in New York. I'd see you made your fortune pretty quick. But you'd never leave London."
"I'm not so sure. Anyway, we'll give it a chance till the autumn."
"Yes, I must see it to a finish."
"If you don't settle down here, then, would you marry an American girl?"