"The coast's clear. Come for a stroll."
Polly emerged, tying her bonnet-strings. "Why, where's Sarah? Oh ... I see. Oh, Richard, I hope she didn't put on that—"
"She did, my dear!" said Mahony grimly, and tucked his wife's hand under his arm.
"Oh, how I wish she wouldn't!" said Polly in a tone of concern. "She does get so stared at—especially of an evening, when there are so many rude men about. But I really don't think she minds. For she HAS a bonnet in her box all the time." Miss Sarah was giving Ballarat food for talk, by appearing on her promenades in a hat: a large, flat, mushroom hat.
"I trust my little woman will never put such a ridiculous object on her head!"
"No, never ... at least, not unless they become quite the fashion," answered Polly. "And I don't think they will. They look too odd."
"Another thing, love," continued Mahony, on whom a sudden light had dawned as he stood listening to Sarah's trumpery. "I fear your sister is trifling with the feelings of our worthy Hempel."
Polly, who had kept her own counsel on this matter, went crimson. "Oh, do you really think so, Richard?" she asked evasively. "I hope not. For of course nothing could come of it. Sarah has refused the most eligible offers."
"Ah, but there are none here to refuse. And if you don't mind my saying so, Poll, anything in trousers seems fish to her net!"
On one of their pacings they found Mr. Ocock come out to smoke an evening pipe. The old man had just returned from a flying visit to Melbourne. He looked glum and careworn, but livened up at the sight of Polly, and cracked one of the mouldy jokes he believed beneficial to a young woman in her condition. Still, the leading-note in his mood was melancholy; and this, although his dearest wish was on the point of being fulfilled.