It seemed to him that she was right. One did ought to be happy in a shop. Folly not to banish dreams that made one ache of townless woods and bracken tangles and red-haired linen-clad figures sitting in dappled sunshine upon grey and crumbling walls and looking queenly down on one with clear blue eyes. Cruel and foolish dreams they were, that ended in one’s being laughed at and made a mock of. There was no mockery here.
“A shop’s such a respectable thing to be,” said Miriam thoughtfully.
“I could be happy in a shop,” he said.
His sense of effect made him pause.
“If I had the right company,” he added.
She became very still.
Mr. Polly swerved a little from the conversational ice-run upon which he had embarked.
“I’m not such a blooming Geezer,” he said, “as not to be able to sell goods a bit. One has to be nosy over one’s buying of course. But I shall do all right.”
He stopped, and felt falling, falling through the aching silence that followed.
“If you get the right company,” said Miriam.
“I shall get that all right.”
“You don’t mean you’ve got someone———”
He found himself plunging.
“I’ve got someone in my eye, this minute,” he said.
“Elfrid!” she said, turning on him. “You don’t mean———”
