Solomon, as usual, was certainly seated at his office, and held his features composed and serious to a degree; still, in spite of everything he could do, there was an expression half of embarrassment, and half of the very slightest perceptible tendency to a waggish simile, we can scarcely call it—but, whatever it might be, there it certainly was, betraying to Poll, in spite of all his efforts, that there was still the least tincture imaginable of human frailty associated with such a vast mass of sanctity.
Polly, when she entered, took a seat, and loosening the strings of her bonnet, raised it a little, and without uttering a word sat silently looking in M'Slime's face, with a very comic and significant expression on her own.
“No, Polly,” said he, with a serious smile, “no, you are mistaken indeed—frail we all are, I grant you; but in this case am acting for another. No, no, Polly—I trust those days of vanity are gone.”
“Well, then, what else am I to do? I sent the reports abroad about M'Loughlin and Harman's being about to break; and of M'Loughlin I'll soon have my revenge, by the way—I and somebody else have the train laid for it.”
“Polly, it was from no unchristian spirit of ill-will to them—for I trust that of such a spirit I am incapable—but to prevent them, by an unjust act, from injuring, perhaps from ruining others. That is my motive; but, at the same time, the whole matter is understood to be strictly confidential between you and me.”
“Don't you know, Mr. M'Slime, that when there was an occasion for trustin' me, I didn't betray you to the world?”
“No—you did not; and it is for that reason that I trust you now.”
“Ay, and you may, too; honor bright is my motive. You remember the day you passed Darby O'Drive and me, on our way to M'Clutchy's? Did I pretend to know you then?”
“You acted then, Poll, with great and commendable discretion, which you will please to remember I did not overlook.”
“No,” said Poll, “you behaved decently enough.”