There was no glow of hope in his heart.

He had no deep faith in the girl he loved; indeed in his heart of hearts he knew that this being to whom he had trusted his hopes of bliss was no heroine.

She was a lovely, loveable girl, nothing more.

How would she greet him when they met presently on the tennis lawn?
With tears and entreaties, and pretty little deprecating speeches, irresolution, timidity, vacillation, perhaps; hardly with heroic resolve to act and dare for his sake.
There was no one on the tennis lawn when he went there, though the hour was close at hand at which Lesbia had promised to give him his answer.
He sat down in one of the low chairs, glad to rest after his long ramble having had no refreshment but a bottle of soda-water and a biscuit at the cottage by Easedale Tarn.

He waited, calmly as to outward seeming, but with a heavy heart.
'If it were Mary now whom I loved, I should have little fear of the issue,' he thought, weighing his sweetheart's character, as he weighed his chances of success.