"I'm afraid not," said Polly with a sigh. "Well, I hope he won't come back here, that's all"; and she considered the seam she was sewing, with an absent air.
"Why, love? Don't you like old Dickybird?" asked Mahony in no small surprise.
"Oh yes, quite well. But..."
"Is it because he still can't make up his mind to take your Tilly—eh?"
"That, too. But chiefly because of something he said."
"And what was that, my dear?"
"Oh, very silly," and Polly smiled.
"Out with it, madam! Or I shall suspect the young dog of having made advances to my wife."
"Richard, DEAR!" Little Polly thought he was in earnest, and grew exceedingly confused. "Oh no, nothing like that," she assured him, and with red cheeks rushed into an explanation. "He only said, in spite of you being such old friends he felt you didn't really care to have him here on Ballarat. After a time you always invented some excuse to get him away." But now that it was out, Polly felt the need of toning down the statement, and added: "I shouldn't wonder if he was silly enough to think you were envious of him, for having so many friends and being liked by all sorts of people."
"Envious of him? I? Who on earth has been putting such ideas into your head?" cried Mahony.