"Great news. Do meet me at entrance to Liverpool Street Station one o'clock. Wonderful news."
What this news could be puzzled her for a moment; then she remembered that Mr. Parish had spoke of a possible "rise" at Swettenham's early in the New Year. That must be it. He had got an increase of salary; perhaps five shillings a week more; no doubt.
Would that make any difference? Was it "good enough"? So her thoughts phrased the anxious question.
Regarding Christopher one thing was certain—he would be her very humble slave. She imagined herself his wife, she pictured him inclining to revolt, she saw the results of that feeble insubordination, and laughed aloud. Christopher was respectable; he would undoubtedly continue to rise at Swettenham's, he would take a pride in the magnificence of her costume. When her temper called for natural relief she could quarrel with him by the hour without the least apprehension, and in the end would graciously forgive him. Yes, there was much to be said for Christopher.
A little before one o'clock she was at Liverpool Street, sheltered from a drizzle that brought down all the smoke of myriad chimneys. A slim figure in overcoat and shining hat rushed through the puddles towards her, waving an umbrella to the peril of other people speeding only less frantically.
"Polly! I've got it!"
He could gasp no more; he seized her arm as if for support.
"How much is it?" she asked calmly.
"Five hundred and fifty pounds! Hyjene!"
"What—five hundred and fifty a year?"