“It’s whimper, whimper, and squeak, squeak, half their lives with some girls. After that they go wondering they can’t see to thread a needle! The neighbours, I suppose. I should like to lift the top off some o’ their houses. I hope I haven’t kept you, sir.”
“No, Polly,” said Evan; “but you must be charitable, or I shall think you want a lesson yourself. Mr. Raikes tells me you want to see me. What is it? You seem to be correspondents.”
Polly replied: “Oh, no, Mr. Harrington: only accidental ones—when something particular’s to be said. And he dances-like on the paper, so that you can’t help laughing. Isn’t he a very eccentric gentleman, sir?”
“Very,” said Evan. “I’ve no time to lose, Polly.”
“Here, you must go,” the latter called to her sister. “Now pack at once, Sue. Do rout out, and do leave off thinking you’ve got a candle at your eyes, for Goodness’ sake!”
Susan was too well accustomed to Polly’s usage to complain. She murmured a gentle “Good night, sir,” and retired. Whereupon Polly exclaimed: “Bless her poor dear soft heart! It’s us hard ones that get on best in the world. I’m treated better than her, Mr. Harrington, and I know I ain’t worth half of her. It goes nigh to make one religious, only to see how exactly like Scripture is the way Beckley treats her, whose only sin is her being so soft as to believe in a man! Oh, dear! Mr. Harrington! I wish I had good news for you.”
In spite of all his self-control, Evan breathed quickly and looked eagerly.
“Speak it out, Polly.”
“Oh, dear! I must, I suppose,” Polly answered. “Mr. Laxley’s become a lord now, Mr. Harrington.”
Evan tasted in his soul the sweets of contrast. “Well?”