But there are limits to endurance. This could not go on any longer; yet how was he to end it? French had said nothing since that interview in the Shelbourne Hotel, and a subject like that, once dropped between two men, is horribly difficult to take up again.
What did French propose to do? Was he waiting till Garryowen won or lost the City and Suburban before he "asked" Miss Grimshaw. No time limit had been imposed. "I'm giving you a fair field and no favour," Mr. French had said. "If she likes you better than me, well and good. If she likes me better than you, all the better for me."
That was all very well, but which did she like best? This question was now calling imperatively for an answer. Miss Grimshaw alone could answer it; but who was to ask her? No third person could put the proposition before her. Only one of the two rivals could do so, and to do so would be to propose, and to propose would be dishonest.
Of course, a seemingly easy solution of the difficulty would be to go to French and say: "See here. I can't stand this any longer. I'm so much in love with this girl I must speak. What do you propose to do?"
Seemingly easy, yet most immensely difficult. In the Shelbourne, when the young man had spoken, he had spoken in one of those outbursts of confidence which men rarely give way to. To reopen the question in cold blood was appallingly hard. Not only had he got to know the girl better in the last few months, but he had also got an entirely different view of French. The good, easy-going French had turned for Mr. Dashwood from another man who was a friend into a friend who was a sort of fatherly relation. The difference in years between them showed up stronger and stronger as acquaintanceship strengthened, and French had taken on an avuncular manner.
The benevolent and paternal in his nature had unconsciously developed; he was constantly giving Bobby good advice, warning him of the evils of getting into debt, holding himself up as an awful example, etc. French, in the last ten weeks, had shown no symptoms of special feeling with regard to the lady. Was he, too, playing the game, or had he forgotten all about his intentions towards her? Or was his mind taken up so completely with the horse and his money troubles that he had no time at the moment to think of anything else?
"Isn't it delightful?" said Miss Grimshaw.
"Which?" asked Bobby, coming back from perplexed meditations to reality.
"This! The air! The country! Look! there's a primrose."
They were taking the downhill path from The Martens. A pale yellow primrose growing in a coign of the Down side had attracted her attention, and she stooped to pick it.