earnestly that he had to regard it again, and compromised the case by saying that it wanted kissing by Nicholas Frim, which set Polly’s lips in a pout.
“I’m sure it wants kissing by nobody,” she said, adding with a spasm of passion: “Oh! I know the colours of my bonnet are all smeared over it, and I’m a dreadful fright.”
Evan failed to adopt the proper measures to make Miss Wheedle’s mind easy with regard to her appearance, and she commenced her story rather languidly.
“My Miss Rose—what was it I was going to tell? Oh!—my Miss Rose. You must know, Mr. Harrington, she’s very fond of managing; I can see that, though I haven’t known her long before she gave up short frocks; and she said to Mr. Laxley, who’s going to marry her some day, ‘She didn’t like my lady, the Countess, taking Mr. Harry to herself like that.’ I can’t abear to speak his name, but I suppose he’s not a bit more selfish than the rest of men. So Mr. Laxley said—just like the jealousy of men—they needn’t talk of women! I’m sure nobody can tell what we have to put up with. We mustn’t look out of this eye, or out of the other, but they’re up and—oh, dear me! There’s such a to-do as never was known—all for nothing!—”
“My good girl!” said Evan, recalling her to the subject-matter with all the patience he could command.
“Where was I?” Polly travelled meditatively back. “I do feel a little cold.”
“Come closer,” said Evan. “Take this handkerchief—it’s the only dry thing I have—cover your chest with it.”
“The shoulders feel wettest,” Polly replied, “and they can’t be helped. I’ll tie it round my neck, if you’ll stop, sir. There, now, I’m warmer.”
To show how concisely women can narrate when they feel warmer, Polly started off:
“So, you know, Mr. Harrington, Mr. Laxley said—he said to Miss Rose, ‘you have taken her brother, and she has taken yours.’ And Miss Rose said, ‘That was her own business, and nobody else’s.’ And Mr. Laxley said, ‘He was glad she thought it a fair exchange.’ I heard it all! And then Miss Rose said—for she can be in a passion about some things—‘What do you mean, Ferdinand,’ was her words, ‘I insist upon your speaking out.’ Miss Rose always will call gentlemen by their Christian names when she likes them; that’s always a sign with her. And he wouldn’t tell her. And Miss Rose got awful angry, and she’s clever, is my Miss Rose, for what does she do, Mr. Harrington, but begins praising you up so that she knew it must make him mad, only because men can’t abide praise of another man when it’s a woman that says it—meaning, young lady; for my Miss Rose has my respect, however familiar she lets herself be to us that she likes. The others may go and drown themselves. Are you took ill, sir?”
“No,” said Evan, “I was only breathing.”
“The doctors say it’s bad to take such long breaths,” remarked artless Polly. “Perhaps my arms are pressing you?”
“It’s the best thing they can do,” murmured Evan, dejectedly.
“What, sir?”
“Go and drown themselves!”
Polly screwed her lips, as if she had a pin between them, and continued:
“Miss Rose was quite sensible when she praised you as her friend; she meant it—every word; and then sudden what does Mr. Laxley do, but say you was something else besides friend—worse or better; and she was silent, which made him savage, I could hear by his voice. And he said, Mr. Harrington, ‘You meant it if she did not.’ ‘No,’ says she, ‘I know better; he’s as honest as the day.’ Out he flew and said such things: he said, Mr. Harrington, you wasn’t fit to be Miss Rose’s friend, even. Then she said, she heard he had told lies about you to her mama, and her aunts; but her mama, my lady, laughed at him, and she at her aunts. Then he said you—oh, abominable of him!”
“What did he say?” asked Evan, waking up.
“Why, if I were to tell my Miss Rose some things of him,” Polly went on, “she’d never so much as speak to him another instant.”
“What did he say?” Evan repeated.
“I hate him!” cried Polly. “It’s Mr. Laxley that misleads Mr. Harry, who has got his good nature, and means no more harm than he can help. Oh, I didn’t hear what he said of you, sir. Only I know it was abominable, because Miss Rose was so vexed, and you were her dearest friend.”
“Well, and about the looking-glass?”
“That was at night, Mr. Harrington, when I was undressing of her. Miss Rose has a beautiful figure, and no need of lacing. But I’d better get down now.”
“For heaven’s sake stay where you are.”
“I tell her she stands as if she’d been drilled for a soldier,” Polly quietly continued. “You’re squeezing my arm with your elbow, Mr. Harrington. It didn’t hurt me. So when I had her nearly undressed, we were talking about this and that, and you amongst ’em—and I, you know, rather like you, sir, if you’ll not think me too bold—she started off by asking me what was the nickname people gave to tailors. It was one of her whims. I told her they were called snips—I’m off!”
Polly gave a shriek. The horse had reared as if violently stung.
“Go on,” said Evan, “Hold hard, and go on.”
“Snips—Oh! and I told her they were called snips. It is a word that seems to make you hate the idea. I shouldn’t like to hear my intended called snip. Oh, he’s going to gallop!”
And off in a gallop Polly was borne.
“Well,” said Evan, “well?”
“I can’t, Mr. Harrington; I have to press you so,” cried Polly; “and I’m bounced so—I shall bite my tongue.”
After a sharp stretch, the horse fell to a canter, and then trotted slowly, and allowed Polly to finish.
“So Miss Rose was standing sideways to the