‘I would rather not, Ethelberta; because it is hardly anything.’
‘Well, be careful. And mind this, never tell him what you feel.’
‘But then he will never know it.’
‘Nor must he. He must think it only. The difference between his thinking and knowing is often the difference between your winning and losing. But general advice is not of much use, and I cannot give more unless you tell more. What is his name?’
Picotee did not reply.
‘Never mind: keep your secret. However, listen to this: not a kiss—not so much as the shadow, hint, or merest seedling of a kiss!’
‘There is no fear of it,’ murmured Picotee; ‘though not because of me!’
‘You see, my dear Picotee, a lover is not a relative; and he isn’t quite a stranger; but he may end in being either, and the way to reduce him to whichever of the two you wish him to be is to treat him like the other. Men who come courting are just like bad cooks: if you are kind to them, instead of ascribing it to an exceptional courtesy on your part, they instantly set it down to their own marvellous worth.’
‘But I ought to favour him just a little, poor thing? Just the smallest glimmer of a gleam!’
‘Only a very little indeed—so that it comes as a relief to his misery, not as adding to his happiness.’