“When I get this shop of mine I shall have a cat. Must make a home for a cat, you know.”
“What, to catch the mice?” said Mrs. Larkins.
“No—sleep in the window. A venerable signor of a cat. Tabby. Cat’s no good if it isn’t tabby. Cat I’m going to have, and a canary! Didn’t think of that before, but a cat and a canary seem to go, you know. Summer weather I shall sit at breakfast in the little room behind the shop, sun streaming in the window to rights, cat on a chair, canary singing and—Mrs. Polly. . . .”
“Ello!” said Mrs. Larkins.
“Mrs. Polly frying an extra bit of bacon. Bacon singing, cat singing, canary singing. Kettle singing. Mrs. Polly———”
“But who’s Mrs. Polly going to be?” said Mrs. Larkins.
“Figment of the imagination, ma’am,” said Mr. Polly. “Put in to fill up picture. No face to figure as yet. Still, that’s how it will be, I can assure you. I think I must have a bit of garden. Johnson’s the man for a garden of course,” he said, going off at a tangent, “but I don’t mean a fierce sort of garden. Earnest industry. Anxious moments. Fervous digging. Shan’t go in for that sort of garden, ma’am. No! Too much backache for me. My garden will be just a patch of ’sturtiums and sweet pea. Red brick yard, clothes’ line. Trellis put up in odd time. Humorous wind vane. Creeper up the back of the house.”
“Virginia creeper?” asked Miriam.
