“My father and I.”
“What have you done that makes you a pariah?” exclaimed Wyn, fairly laughing now. “Aren’t you foolish?”
“No. People say my father was not honest I am Polly Jarley,” said the girl, desperately.
“Polly Jolly?” cried Wyn. “Not much you are! You are anything but jolly. You are Polly Miserrimus.”
“I don’t know what that means, ma’am—”
“Wyn!” exclaimed the other girl, quickly.
“M–Miss Wyn.”
“Not right. Just Wyn. Plain Wyn—”
“Oh, I couldn’t call you plain,” cried the poorly dressed girl, with some spontaneity now. “For you are very pretty. But I don’t really know what Mis–Mis—”
“‘Miserrimus’?’”