“Come, I’m rejoiced at your good luck, my boy; she’s one of a thousand, Guy.”
“So she is,” said Guy, “but I’m not so sure of my good luck as you seem to be; for I have not yet ventured to speak to her on the subject of love.”
“No?” exclaimed Bax in surprise, “that’s strange.”
“Why so?” said Guy.
“Because you’ve had lots of time and opportunity, lad.”
“True,” said Guy, “I have had enough of both, but some folk are not so bold and prompt as others in this curious matter of love.”
“Ah, very true,” observed Bax, “some men do take more time than others, and yet it seems to me that there has been time enough for a sharp fellow like you to have settled that question. However, I’ve no doubt myself of the fact that she loves you, Guy, and I do call that uncommon good luck.”
“Well, it may seem a vain thing to say, but I do fancy that she likes me a bit,” said the other, in a half jocular tone.
The two friends refrained from mentioning the name of the fair one. The heart and mind of each was filled with one object, but each felt a strange disinclination to mention her name.
“But it seems to me,” continued Guy, “that instead of wanting to tell me something, as you said, when you brought me out for a walk in this dreary waste of furze and sand at such a time of night, your real object was to pump me!”