It would probably be in vain.

He had no real hope, unless when he was in one of those poetic moods.

He had acknowledged to himself, in some indistinct way, that he was no more than a hobbledehoy, awkward, silent, ungainly, with a face unfinished, as it were, or unripe.

All this he knew, and knew also that there were Apollos in the world who would be only too ready to carry off Lily in their splendid cars.

But not the less did he make up his mind that having loved her once, it behoved him, as a true man, to love her on to the end.
One little word he had said to her when they parted, but it had been a word of friendship rather than of love.