"Go up slow," whispered Pollypod to him, as she lay with her head on his shoulder; the cunning little maid was in a delicious trance, and was wishful not to wake up too soon; "isn't it nice and dark? Can you see the Ship?"
"Yes."
"And the Captain?"
"Yes."
"And the Doll is there?"
"I can see it, Pollypod."
"And the stars are shining?"
"Beautifully, Pollypod."
"Yes," she murmured, "it is night, and the stars are shining."
The roses on the wall of Mrs. Podmore's room were red enough to assert themselves even in the dim light, and Felix thought that Pollypod's idealisation of them was one of the prettiest of pretty fancies.