“Well, but you were saying—”
“Yes, I went off about Van. Polly says I've a mind like running water. Well, then, when I went home the first time—after Van, mother and Polly raised a virtuous howl. 'All right,' said I—for, of course, I know how much virtue there is under their skins. Virtue of the lower orders! Tell that to gentlefolks that don't know them. I do. I've been one of 'em—'I know all about that,' says I. 'You want to share the plunder, that is the sense of your virtuous cry.' So I had 'em up here; and then there was no more virtuous howling, but a deal of virtuous thieving, and modest drinking, and pure-minded selling of my street-door to the highest male bidder. And they will corrupt the boy; and if they do, I'll cuts their black hearts out with my riding-whip. But I suppose I must keep them on; they are my own flesh and blood; and if I was to be ill and dying, they'd do all they knew to keep me alive—for their own sakes. I'm their milch cow, these country innocents.”
Sir Charles groaned aloud, and said, “My poor girl, you deserve a better fate than this. Marry some honest fellow, and cut the whole thing.”
“I'll see about it. You try it first, and let us see how you like it.”
And so they parted gayly.
In the hall, Polly intercepted him, all smiles. He looked at her, smiled in his sleeve, and gave her a handsome present. “If you please, sir,” said she, “an old gentleman called for you.”
“When?”
“About an hour ago. Leastways, he asked if Sir Charles Bassett was there. I said yes, but you wouldn't see no one.”
“Who could it be? Why, surely you never told anybody I was to be here to-day?”
“La, no, sir! how could I?” said Polly, with a face of brass.