"It's strange you have looked in to-day," said Mrs. Clover, with the dull air of one who has a headache. "I wanted to see you."
"I'm very glad."
He sat down at a distance from her and observed her face. This was a new habit of his; he saw more, much more, than he had been wont to see in the healthy, sweet-tempered, and still young countenance; its present languor disturbed him.
"What was it, Mrs. Clover?" he asked in a voice not quite like his own.
"Well, I wanted to speak about Polly. Her father has been here asking questions."
Gammon set his lips almost angrily.
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know as anything is. But—have you heard anything about her going to be married?"
"Has she told her father that?" he asked, with a shuffle of his feet.
"Not in plain words. But she's doing nothing—except roam about the streets—and she won't give any straightforward account of herself. Now would you mind telling me, Mr. Gammon, whether"—her eyes fell—"I mean, if you've done anything since that night, you know, to make her offended with you?"