“I’m very sorry,” she said; “I never thought it ’ud cost you that much.”

“I shouldn’t care a bit,” Christopher replied, “if you treated me better now I’ve got here.”

Polly moved just a little nearer to him, ever so little, but the movement was appreciable.  Unfortunately Christopher was too weary to notice it.

“What was the address?” she asked in an undertone, which, had but Mr. Parish understood, fitly accompanied that little movement.

He told her bluntly, and Polly repeated the words

“And now I suppose I may say good night,” Christopher added, still with discontent.

“Well, thank you very much for getting me that address.”

“But you won’t tell me what you want it for?”

“I will some time.  I can’t just now.  It’s awful late, and we mustn’t stand talking here.”

Again she came one step nearer.  Now if Christopher Parish had not lost half a Sovereign, or if he had been less worn out, or if the mystery of the evening had not lain so heavy on his mind, assuredly he would have noticed this onward coming; for, as a rule, the young man was sensitive and perceptive enough, all things considered.  Alas! he did not look into Polly’s face, which in the dusk of the doorway had turned towards his.

“I’ll be going then,” he muttered.  “Good night.  Jolly long walk before me still.”

“I’m very sorry.  I am, really.”

“Oh, never mind!  When shall I see you again?”

The crucial moment was past.  Polly drew a step back and held the door.

“I’ll write before long.  Good night, and thank you.”

Mr. Parish plodded away down the avenue, saying to himself that he was blest if he’d be made a fool of like this much longer.

The next morning Polly wrote a line to Mr. Gammon, and two days later, on Sunday, they met in that little strip of garden on the Embankment which lies between Charing Cross Station and Waterloo Bridge.  It was the first week of October; a cold wind rustled the yellowing plane trees, and open-air seats offered no strong temptation.  The two conversed as they walked along.  Polly had not mentioned in her letter any special reason for wishing to see Mr. Gammon, nor did she hasten to make known her discovery.

“Why do you wear a ’at like that on a Sunday?” she began by asking, tartly.

“Because it’s comfortable, I suppose,” answered Gammon, reflecting for the first time that it was not very respectful to come to this rendezvous in a “bowler.”  Polly had never mentioned the matter before, though she had thought about it.  “You like the chimney-pot better?”

“Why, of course I do.  On a Sunday, too, who wouldn’t?”

“I’ll bear it in mind, my dear.  My chimney-pot wants ironing.  Have it done to-morrow if I can find time.”

Polly scrutinized the costume of a girl walking with a soldier, and asked all at once indifferently: