like her at all; she could not understand the satisfaction Hilary Vance drew from her; he hardly ever failed to say in tones of the warmest approval that she was an absolutely perfect type.
Sometimes a friend of Hilary Vance would come in and talk to him as he worked; but for the most part, Pollyooly sat for hour after hour in a quiet, untiring content. Sometimes Hilary Vance would ask her what she thought about. Sometimes she could tell him; sometimes she could not. She thought about so many things. Often she thought about her swelling bank account.
Then one afternoon he was surprised to observe a deep frown on her usually so serene brow.
"Hullo! Whatever's the matter? What are you thinking about, Pollyooly?" he cried in great surprise. "I was getting into the way of believing you to be the serene and ageless fairy, utterly free from all the cares which harass us common mortals. What is it? I must know. I insist on knowing."
Pollyooly flushed faintly and said, "Please, sir: it's Henry Wiggins. He—he bothers me."
"Who is Henry Wiggins? How dare he bother
