“I hate him!” cried Polly. “It’s Mr. Laxley that misleads Mr. Harry, who has got his good nature, and means no more harm than he can help. Oh, I didn’t hear what he said of you, sir. Only I know it was abominable, because Miss Rose was so vexed, and you were her dearest friend.”
“Well, and about the looking-glass?”
“That was at night, Mr. Harrington, when I was undressing of her. Miss Rose has a beautiful figure, and no need of lacing. But I’d better get down now.”
“For heaven’s sake, stay where you are.”
“I tell her she stands as if she’d been drilled for a soldier,” Polly quietly continued. “You’re squeezing my arm with your elbow, Mr. Harrington. It didn’t hurt me. So when I had her nearly undressed, we were talking about this and that, and you amongst ’em—and I, you know, rather like you, sir, if you’ll not think me too bold—she started off by asking me what was the nickname people gave to tailors. It was one of her whims. I told her they were called snips—I’m off!”
Polly gave a shriek. The horse had reared as if violently stung.
“Go on,” said Evan. “Hold hard, and go on.”
“Snips—Oh! and I told her they were called snips. It is a word that seems to make you hate the idea. I shouldn’t like to hear my intended called snip. Oh, he’s going to gallop!”
And off in a gallop Polly was borne.
“Well,” said Evan, “well?”