Paul stood looking at the floor--one o'clock struck, in the stillness,
from a neighbouring church-tower. "Do you think she'd ever look at me?"
he put to his friend at last.

"Miss Fancourt--as a suitor? Why shouldn't I think it? That's why I've
tried to favour you--I've had a little chance or two of bettering your
opportunity."

"Forgive my asking you, but do you mean by keeping away yourself?" Paul
said with a blush.

"I'm an old idiot--my place isn't there," St. George stated gravely.

"I'm nothing yet, I've no fortune; and there must be so many others," his
companion pursued.

The Master took this considerably in, but made little of it. "You're a
gentleman and a man of genius. I think you might do something."

"But if I must give that up--the genius?"

"Lots of people, you know, think I've kept mine," St. George wonderfully
grinned.

"You've a genius for mystification!" Paul declared; but grasping his hand
gratefully in attenuation of this judgement.

"Poor dear boy, I do worry you! But try, try, all the same. I think
your chances are good and you'll win a great prize."