Lal was silent. Remembering that Dolly had noticed the place before, he thought it possible.
“It’s all very well to say girls don’t mind that sort of thing—like a man to sow his wild oats, and all that; but they do mind, the nicest of them. And she’d think you must be such an awful humbug, too. You know, old fellow, the thing for you to do is to go and ask her, and tell her right away.”
“I could not possibly do it, and I would not for the world if I could,” said Lal, with great decision.
“Why not?”
Lal shrugged his shoulders.
“I expect you mean you’re too shy, and don’t like talking about that sort of thing to a girl. Is that it?”
“I dare say.”
“Old fellow, can’t you get over that?”
“I cannot,” said Lal, impatiently. “What, tell Miss Fane that I—that the girl—Besides, she doesn’t care a straw for me. I shall ask her if she’ll have me, and then go. Angela, at least, will be heartily glad.”
“Is her name Fane? Not Dolly Fane, by any chance?”