“No, no,” he whispered—“not for worlds.”
“Pray, pray, go then; and you must not speak to me any more.”
“But Polly, dear Polly,” whispered Humphrey, “tell me one thing, and then I’ll go and wait years and years, if you like, only tell me that.”
Humphrey stopped short, for a singular phenomenon occurred. Polly’s fingers seemed to suddenly change from within his hands to his wrists, and to become bony and firm, a sharp voice at the same moment exclaiming—
“Who’s this?”
Humphrey Lloyd was a man, every inch of him, and he spoke out boldly—
“Well, if you must know, it’s me—Humphrey.”
“Go round to the side door, and come to my room,” said Mrs Lloyd, in a low, angry voice.
Humphrey was heard to go rustling through the laurels, as Mrs Lloyd exclaimed—
“Go up to your room, Miss, this instant; and don’t you stir till I call you down.”