“I say,” cried Tom, eagerly.
“What, dear?”
“Why not do the thing in style while we’re about it. What do you say to asking young Mr Cyril to be godfather?”
If Tom Morrison had looked up then he would have been startled at the livid look in his young wife’s face, but he was too intent upon his tea, and Polly recovered herself and said—
“Oh, no, dear, that would not do, and the young ladies would not like it. Look here, Tom.”
Polly tripped to a basket, from which she produced a white cloak and hood, trimmed with swan’s-down; and these she held up before her husband, flushed and excited, as, in her girlish way, she wondered whether he would like them.
Budge left off eating, and wished for a white dress on the spot, trimmed with silk braid, like that.
“Say,” said Tom, thickly, speaking with his mouth fall, “they’re fine, arn’t they?—cost a lot o’ money.”
“No,” said Polly, gleefully, “they cost nothing, Tom. Miss Julia made me a present of the stuff, and I made them.”
“Did you, though?” he said, looking at her little fingers, admiringly. “You’re a clever girl, Polly; but I often wonder how it was you came to take up with a rough chap like me.”