“Poor Polly,” murmured Jervis, as Marian disappeared. “I hope it wasn’t presumptuous of me to say that. I shouldn’t like Polly to think me a better man than I am. But she seemed so low; and the words came to me—so I don’t think I could have been wrong. I should like to help the poor dear.”
Hannah came suddenly back into the kitchen, walking with an extra heaviness of gait which showed ill-humor.
“Where’s Polly?”
“Gone upstairs.”
“What for?”
Jervis was silent.
“Well—she’ll find her room all upside down. And if she wants to sleep there to-night she’ll have to get it ready for herself.”
Jervis still offered no response. Hannah hauled a huge kettle off the fire with her muscular right hand, and then met her brother’s reproachful eyes.
“What now?” she demanded sharply.
“Hannah, if mother were here, she’d give Polly a different sort of welcome from what you do,” Jervis said in a sorrowful tone.