Little Popham sprang down, for he had been sitting on the table, and advanced toward the window, hurriedly, holding his cigar in his hand.
“A girl!” he exclaimed. “Where? What sort of a girl?”
“As to sort,” returned Framleigh, “I don’t know the species. A sort of girl I never saw before. But, if you wait, you may judge for yourself. She will soon be out there in the garden again. She has been darting in and out of the house for the last twenty minutes.”
“Out of the house?” said Popham, eagerly, “Do you mean the house opposite?”
“Yes.”
“By Jupiter!” employing his usual mild expletive, “look here, old fellow, had she a white dress on, and geranium-colored bows, and—”
“Yes,” said Framleigh. “And she is rather tall for such a girl; and her hair is cut, on her round white forehead, Sir Peter Lely fashion (they call it banging, I believe), and she gives you the impression, at first, of being all eyes, great dark eyes, with—”
“Long, curly, black lashes,” interpolated Popham, with enthusiasm. “By Jupiter! I thought so! It’s pretty Polly P.”
He was so evidently excited that Framleigh looked up with a touch of interest, though he was scarcely a man of enthusiasm himself.
“Pretty Polly P.!” he repeated. “Rather familiar mode of speech, isn’t it? Who is pretty Polly P.?”