“It’s the tall one, mother, not the windy one,” was explained in the kitchen, but Mrs. Merritt, sniffing, had declared they were all the same.
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Polly. “But this gentleman talks like asking and having, if you want my opinion.”
The riot in her breast was betrayed by her shining eyes and the quick flood of colour from neck to brows; but he played the man of the world so well that she was able to recover herself.
He made his excuses for breaking in upon her. He had been going through Exeter in any case. It was hardly to be resisted, she would allow. He owned that Horace Wing had given him the clue. “Poor Horace, you hurt him. It took two months’ hard talking in town and at least a month of surmise in Scotland before Horace could find strength enough to own up to the fact that he had met you, that you had bowed—and bolted. He mentioned it with tears in his eyes, as an extreme case. He had heard you book to Exeter—second single.” Then he looked at her and smiled. “But why Miss Middleham?”
“Why not?” she echoed him bravely. “I had to be somebody.”
“Weren’t you person enough?”
“Ah, yes, I was too much of a person, I was almost a personage. I was never happy in that disguise. My clothes never fitted me.”
“You should let other people judge of that. If you would like my opinion of your clothes, for instance——”
She shook her head, without speaking. He tried a more direct attack.
“You forgive me for coming?”