Evan looked round and met her appealing face, over which the damp locks of hair straggled. The maid was fair: it was fortunate that he was thinking of the mistress.
“Speak on,” said Evan, but Polly put the question whether her face did not want washing, and so earnestly that he had to regard it again, and compromised the case by saying that it wanted kissing by Nicholas Frim, which set Polly’s lips in a pout.
“I’m sure it wants kissing by nobody,” she said, adding with a spasm of passion: “Oh! I know the colours of my bonnet are all smeared over it, and I’m a dreadful fright.”
Evan failed to adopt the proper measures to make Miss Wheedle’s mind easy with regard to her appearance, and she commenced her story rather languidly.
“My Miss Rose—what was it I was going to tell? Oh!—my Miss Rose. You must know, Mr. Harrington, she’s very fond of managing; I can see that, though I haven’t known her long before she gave up short frocks; and she said to Mr. Laxley, who’s going to marry her some day, ‘She didn’t like my lady, the Countess, taking Mr. Harry to herself like that.’ I can’t a-bear to speak his name, but I suppose he’s not a bit more selfish than the rest of men. So Mr. Laxley said—just like the jealousy of men—they needn’t talk of women! I’m sure nobody can tell what we have to put up with. We mustn’t look out of this eye, or out of the other, but they’re up and—oh, dear me! there’s such a to-do as never was known—all for nothing!”
“My good girl!” said Evan, recalling her to the subject-matter with all the patience he could command.
“Where was I?” Polly travelled meditatively back. “I do feel a little cold.”
“Come closer,” said Evan. “Take this handkerchief—it’s the only dry thing I have—cover your chest with it.”
“The shoulders feel wettest,” Polly replied, “and they can’t be helped. I’ll tie it round my neck, if you’ll stop, sir. There, now I’m warmer.”
To show how concisely women can narrate when they feel warmer, Polly started off: