“No. He lives in a tent—in a cart.”
“What! Like a gipsy? Oh, Miss!” This would never, never do.
But Mary admitted it, thoughtfully. “Yes. I think he might be a sort of gipsy.”
This, to Polly, was final. “I do think you’re better here, Miss Middleham, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Perhaps I am,” said Mary.
Polly had veered. “I’ll warrant the other gentleman would have a house to offer you.”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so. But——”
“Ah, that’s just it—that’s just it.”
Mary admitted it. “I suppose it is. But he says that he will never marry. He doesn’t believe in marriage.”
“Ho, indeed!” cried Polly. “Then pray what does he believe in?”