Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the musichall artistes, a little blond Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to Polly.  The reunion had been almost broken up on account of Jack’s violence.  Everyone tried to quiet him.  The music-hall artiste, a little paler than usual, kept smiling and saying that there was no harm meant:  but Jack kept shouting at him that if any fellow tried that sort of a game on with his sister he’d bloody well put his teeth down his throat, so he would.

Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying.  Then she dried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass.  She dipped the end of the towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool water.  She looked at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above her ear.  Then she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot.  She regarded the pillows for a long time and the sight of them awakened in her mind secret, amiable memories.  She rested the nape of her neck against the cool iron bed-rail and fell into a reverie.  There was no longer any perturbation visible on her face.

She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm. her memories gradually giving place to hopes and visions of the future.  Her hopes and visions were so intricate that she no longer saw the white pillows on which her gaze was fixed or remembered that she was waiting for anything.

At last she heard her mother calling.  She started to her feet and ran to the banisters.

“Polly!  Polly!”

“Yes, mamma?”

“Come down, dear.  Mr. Doran wants to speak to you.”

Then she remembered what she had been waiting for.

A LITTLE CLOUD

Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him godspeed.  Gallaher had got on.  You could tell that at once by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent.  Few fellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success.  Gallaher’s heart was in the right place and he had deserved to win.  It was something to have a friend like that.

Little Chandler’s thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting with Gallaher, of Gallaher’s invitation and of the great city London where Gallaher lived.  He was called Little Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea of being a little man.  His hands were white and small, his frame was fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined.  He took the greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief.  The half-moons of his nails were perfect and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white teeth.