“Well, then, I do tell you that. I never
gave her the least cause to speak of me in that way.
It’s all lies.”
“I more than half thought it was.”
Mrs. Clover heaved a sigh and looked more cheerful.
“And what,” she added, “does she
mean about marrying a gentleman?”
“That’s more than I can tell you.”
Again he laughed, laughed like a man enjoying sudden
relief of mind.
“More than I can tell you, Mrs. Clover.
But I’ll see if I can’t find out; indeed
I will. Her friends, the Nibby’s, may be
able to tell me something. Have you asked her
to come and see you?”
“No. For one thing I don’t know the
address, and after a letter like this—”
“Quite right. Leave it to me.”
He bent his head, hesitated, and added quietly, “I
may have something to tell you.”
Thereupon they parted, and Mrs. Clover felt her head
so much better that she was able to attend to business.
A DOUBLE EVENT
With clang and twang the orchestra (a music-hall orchestra)
summoned to hilarity an audience of the first half-hour;
stragglers at various prices, but all alike in their
manifest subdual by a cold atmosphere, a dull illumination,
empty seats, and inferior singers put on for the early
“turns.” A striking of matches to
kindle pipe or cigar, a thudding of heavy boots, clink
of glass or pewter, and a waiter’s spiritless
refrain—“Any orders, gents?”
Things would be better presently. In the meantime
Mr. Gammon was content to have found a place where
he could talk with Polly, sheltered from the January
night, at small expense. He sipped thoughtfully
from a tumbler of rich Scotch; he glanced cautiously
at his companion, who seemed very much under the influence
of the hour. Polly, in fact, had hardly spoken.
Her winter costume could not compare in freshness
and splendour with that which had soothed her soul
through the bygone sunny season; to tell the truth,
she was all but shabby. But Gammon had no eye
for this. He was trying to read Polly’s
thoughts, and wondering how she could take what he
had made up his mind to tell her.
" I saw your aunt yesterday.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I did. She was telling me about a
letter she had from you some time ago—the
last letter you wrote her.”
Their eyes met. Miss Sparkes was defiant—on
her guard, but not wholly courageous; Gammon twinkled
a mocking smile, and held himself ready for whatever
might come.
“She shows you people’s letters, does
she?” said Polly with a sneer.
“This one she did. Good reason. It
was funny reading, old girl. That’s your
opinion of me, is it? Do you mind telling me who
the gentleman is—the real gentleman—you
think of taking up with?”
Gammon could not strike a really ungenerous note.
He had meant to be severe, but did not get beyond
sly banter.
