“Been telling me stories,” said Polly. “Funny stories. I like your stories best.”
“Of course you do,” said Robin, laughing at Barry’s disgusted face. “I’ll tell you about Cinderella after tea, if you like—when he is out of the way.” For Polly loved stories, and would listen to the simplest fairy-tale, told over and over, with the most perfect delight. It was no unusual thing for her to crouch near Robin as she worked in the garden, listening, with parted lips and shining eyes, while Robin told her “The Three Bears,” or some other nursery classic, between strokes of her hoe.
“I never saw such rotten taste!” said Barry, disgustedly. “I’ve been telling her a gorgeous yarn I read about some Boy Scouts who got off with an aeroplane—but I believe it’s all double-Dutch to her.”
“Yes—double-Dutch!” said Polly, chuckling to herself over the phrase. “Funny little boy!”
“Here, I say—who are you calling little?” demanded Barry, justly indignant.
“Double-Dutch little boy,” crooned Polly, softly. “Double-Dutch little boy!” The words pleased her, and she drifted out of the kitchen, still singing them softly. Barry laughed, but there was pity in the laugh.
“Poor soul!” he said. “She’s just awfully funny, but what a shame it all is. She’d be a jolly nice little woman if she hadn’t had that cruel time.”
“I think she’s that now,” said Robin. “There never was anyone kinder, and she’s very capable and sensible in lots of ways. Only, just like a little child.” She sighed. “You know, I can’t bear to think of her after she leaves here: they are going to put her in some Home or other, and she’ll simply hate it. She can’t stand being within four walls—do you notice she always wanders out of a room after a few minutes? She told me once that something would hurt her if she stayed in a room.”
“Queer idea,” said Barry.
“Yes, isn’t it? And she loves the hills: she often sits on a stump in the paddock and looks at them for an hour at a time. I wonder does she think Jim is in them?”