“And she—she says—Con tells me that there is a chance for me—just a chance, Helen. And, Helen, I don’t want to spoil my chance, if I have one, by rushing in. You understand?”
“I think,” Helen said, “that Joan would like you the better and admire you the more for being brave enough to speak out.”
“That’s it! I’ve got to speak out. You know I love her!”
“I do, dear.”
“But she doesn’t love me. It is not likely; how could she? Look at me, a great ugly chap—how could such a girl care for me?”
“I think any girl might very easily care for you, Johnny!”
“An ugly brute like me? A farmer. I am nothing more, Helen, and—and—”
“Johnny, she is in the garden. Go to her; take your courage in both your hands. Remember—
‘He either fears his fate too much.
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch,
To gain or lose it all.’”
“I’ll go!” Johnny Everard said. “I can but lose, eh? That’s the worst that can happen to me—lose. But, by Heaven! if I do lose, it is going to—to hurt, and hurt badly. Helen dear, wish me luck!”