“Is there anything the matter, my dear?” said the little doctor, who was startled by the lady’s energy.
“What did you call me, sir?”
“Polly, my dear; tender pet name for Mary.”
“Never again please, dear Henry,” said the little lady. “I don’t wish to be too particular, and don’t mind tenderness—I—I—rather like it, dear. But do I look like a lady who could be called Polly?”
“Then it shall always be Mary, my dear,” said the doctor; “and I won’t joke about serious matters. As to Neil Harley and Helen Perowne, you’re quite right; but ’pon my word, I don’t see why we should interfere as long as matters don’t go too far.”
“I do not agree with you, Henry.”
“You have not heard my argument, my dear,” he said taking her hand, drawing it through his arm, and walking her up and down the deck. “Now look here, my dear Mary, six months ago you were a miserable unbeliever.”
“A what?” cried the lady, indignantly.
“A miserable unbeliever. You had no faith in its being the duty of all ladies to get married; and I came to your barbarous little village and converted you.”
“Oh, yes, I had great belief,” said the little lady, quietly.