“Indeed I would, Polly; but why do you ask me in that strange way?”
“Because—because, Miss, I want to ask a favour of you now,” cried the young wife, desperately.
“What is it, Polly?” said Julia, showing deep interest now.
“Please, Miss, you—you remember when we were at Dinan.”
“Yes, yes; what?” cried Julia.
“About Mr Cyril.”
“Yes,” cried Julia, catching her hand; “he has not dared?”
“He—he came here yesterday, Miss, while Tom was out,” cried Polly, bursting into tears, “and he came once before; and it frightens me, Miss—it horrifies me; for Tom loves me so dearly, Miss; and it would make him angry, and break his heart if he thought ill of me, Miss Julia.”
“But did you encourage him to come again?” cried Julia, angrily.
“No, Miss Julia, I nearly went on my knees to him, and begged him not to come again, but he only laughed, and—and called me a little fool.”