He had called her "Polly." The name had come unbidden to his tongue. It had brought no rebuke—or was it that she had not noticed it?
"I would hurt myself more," she said steadily, "if I felt that those around me could have any justification in believing that I was purposely masquerading in order to deceive. That would be hypocrisy—and I hate that!" She flung out her hands suddenly with a queer, little helpless gesture. "Oh, I wonder if you understand what I mean; I wonder if I am explaining myself—and if you won't at once think that I am utterly inconsistent when I say that at school no one knew anything about my former life? But, you see, I have never felt that I was called upon to make the intimate things in my life a matter of public knowledge. And in that respect I can quite understand guardy's attitude in wishing me to say nothing about it, for, in so many cases, and especially at school, it would have just supplied a fund for gossip, and—and that would have been abominable."
"Of course, it would!" There was savage assent in Locke's voice. "It's nobody's business but your own."
"Oh, yes, it is," she answered instantly. "It's Miss Marlin's business—if I come here as a guest."
"Yes," said Locke quickly; "but you have told her, and—"
"Wait!" she interrupted. "Yes, I have told her; and now I have told you. But your two cases are entirely different, and I am not altogether sure that my reason for telling you is entirely to my credit, because it—it is perhaps like the child who confesses when he knows he is sure to be found out. You couldn't be here with poor Mr. Marlin very long before you knew. Do you understand? I couldn't bear the thought of you, or any one, thinking I was deliberately trying to hide the truth, or that, when there was reason to do so, I was afraid or ashamed to speak out myself."
"I wish you hadn't added that 'any one,'" he said in a low voice.
She did not answer. She was staring now into the fire. And he too stared into it now. It was full of pictures—strange, drab pictures. He knew Whitechapel—its stark, hopeless realism; he knew its children—without shoes. Was that what she saw there now? The fire was dying—beneath the one remaining log, almost burned through now, there were only embers. They glowed here and there and went out—black. Like some memories!
He looked at her again. Her face, that he could see now, seemed strangely pinched and drawn. Her hand toyed nervously with a frill of her dress. And something seemed suddenly to choke in his throat, and a great yearning came—and it would not be denied.
"Polly!" he whispered, and, leaning over, caught her hand in his.