Christopher stared at her.
"You don't understand. The missing word. I've got it this week. Cheque for five hundred and fifty pounds! Hyjene!"
"Reely!"
"Look here—here's the cheque! Hyjene!"
Polly fingered the paper, studied the inscription. All the time she was thinking that this sum of money would furnish a house in a style vastly superior to that of Mrs. Nibby's. Mrs. Nibby would go black in the face with envy, hatred, and malice. As she reflected Christopher talked, drawing her to the least-frequented part of the huge roaring railway station.
"Will you, Polly? Why don't you speak? Do, Polly, do!"
She all but spoke, would have done but for an ear-rending whistle from an engine.
"I shall have a rise, too, Polly. I'm feeling my feet at Swettenham's. Who knows what I may get to? Polly, I might—I might some day have a big business of my own, and build a house at Eastbourne. It's all on the cards, Polly. Others have done it before me. Swettenham began as a clerk—he did. Think Polly, five hundred and fifty pounds!—Hyjene!"
She met his eye; she nodded.
"You will?"