Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the musichall
artistes, a little blond Londoner, had made a rather
free allusion to Polly. The reunion had been
almost broken up on account of Jack’s violence.
Everyone tried to quiet him. The music-hall artiste,
a little paler than usual, kept smiling and saying
that there was no harm meant: but Jack kept shouting
at him that if any fellow tried that sort of a game
on with his sister he’d bloody well put his teeth
down his throat, so he would.
Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed,
crying. Then she dried her eyes and went over
to the looking-glass. She dipped the end of the
towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with
the cool water. She looked at herself in profile
and readjusted a hairpin above her ear. Then
she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot.
She regarded the pillows for a long time and the sight
of them awakened in her mind secret, amiable memories.
She rested the nape of her neck against the cool iron
bed-rail and fell into a reverie. There was no
longer any perturbation visible on her face.
She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without
alarm. her memories gradually giving place to hopes
and visions of the future. Her hopes and visions
were so intricate that she no longer saw the white
pillows on which her gaze was fixed or remembered
that she was waiting for anything.
At last she heard her mother calling. She started
to her feet and ran to the banisters.
“Polly! Polly!”
“Yes, mamma?”
“Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak
to you.”
Then she remembered what she had been waiting for.
A LITTLE CLOUD
Eight years before he had seen his friend off
at the North Wall and wished him godspeed. Gallaher
had got on. You could tell that at once by his
travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless
accent. Few fellows had talents like his and fewer
still could remain unspoiled by such success.
Gallaher’s heart was in the right place and
he had deserved to win. It was something to have
a friend like that.
Little Chandler’s thoughts ever since lunch-time
had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher’s
invitation and of the great city London where Gallaher
lived. He was called Little Chandler because,
though he was but slightly under the average stature,
he gave one the idea of being a little man. His
hands were white and small, his frame was fragile,
his voice was quiet and his manners were refined.
He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and
moustache and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief.
The half-moons of his nails were perfect and when
he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish
white teeth.
