“I say, Molly, one minute! I want a word with her.”
Molly obediently fled, and she had seldom done a harder thing in her whole life.
Roy walked across the rug, and bent over Polly. As he had expected, there were tears upon her cheek.
“Polly, you’ll let me speak—will you? I want you to understand.”
A hasty movement disposed of the tears, and she turned a quiet face towards him.
“I think I do understand.”
“Den is not the man to change.”
“Many men do change—so easily.”
“Not Denham. That’s not his sort.”
She smiled a little.