She was rather glad he had lost a year's income, if this was his spiritless type. An hour before she had been anticipating a welcome accession to the Witherbee house-party—welcome because she felt quite sure that no young man could fail to be an improvement upon Mr. Morton, Reggy, Fortescue Jones, and the Perkins boy. Now she was rapidly reaching the conclusion that Billy Kellogg was even worse than any of them, and it was peculiarly a shock because it so wholly reversed her anticipations.
"You won't be paired off with Mr. Morton, at any rate," she told him consolingly. "There are lots of others. Polly Dawson, for instance; she knows you, I understand."
"Er—she is there?"
"Yes, indeed," and then Rosalind enumerated the other guests.
He shook his head as she named each person, and then returned to Polly Dawson.
"That's another surprise," he confessed.
"Not unpleasant, I hope?"
"Oh, no; not at all. I assure you I didn't mean that. Only—well, it's a surprise."
"Polly is really a very nice girl. And I've heard her speak of you so often."
"Er—have you? That's good of her, I'm sure."