“I had better not let Polly know he burnt it,” remarked Gammon.

“Why, no; I shouldn’t advise that,” said the other with a smile.  “But I have heard that married men—­”

“Shut up!  I’m not going to marry her.”

Driven to this bold declaration, Gammon at once felt such great relief that he dared everything.

“Then there’ll be the devil to pay,” said Greenacre.

“Wait a bit.  Of course I shall take my time about breaking off.”

“Gammon, I am surprised and shocked—­not for the first time—­at your utter want of principle.”

Each caught the other’s eye.  The muscles of their faces relaxed, and they joined in a mirthful peal.

It was a long and exciting week for the town traveller.  Greenacre, always on the look out for romance in common life, was never surprised when he discovered it, but to Gammon it came with such a sense of novelty that he had much ado to keep a clear head for everyday affairs.  He drove about London as usual, but beset with fantastic visions and desires.  Not only was Polly quite dismissed from his thoughts (in the tender sense), but he found himself constantly occupied with the image of Mrs. Clover, heretofore seldom in his mind, notwithstanding her brightness and comeliness and the friendship they had so long felt for each other.  Minnie he had forgotten; the mother came before him in such a new light that he could hardly believe his former wish to call her mother-in-law.  This strange emotion was very disturbing.  As if he had not worry enough already!

Delicacy kept him away from the china shop.  He knew how hard it must be for the poor woman to disguise her feelings before Minnie and other people.  Minnie, to be sure, would understand signs of distress as a result of her father’s brief reappearance, but Mrs. Clover’s position was no less lamentable.  He wished to be at her side endeavouring to console her.  Yet, as likely as not, all he said would give her more pain than comfort.

Ah, but there was a woman!  Was he likely ever to meet another who had pluck and goodness and self-respect like hers?  Minnie?  Some day, perhaps, being her mother’s daughter.  But Minnie, after all, was little more than a child.  And he could no longer think of her in the old way it made him uncomfortable if he tried to do so.

Polly?  Ah, Polly!  Polly be hanged!

He had an appointment with her for this evening—­not at the theatre door, for Polly no longer went to the theatre.  Change in the management had put an end to her pleasant and lucrative evenings; she had tried in vain to get like employment at other places.  In a letter received this morning she remarked significantly that of course it was not worth while to take up any other pursuit again.

It could not be called a delightful letter from any point of view.  Polly had grown tired of uniform sweetness, and indulged herself in phrases of an acid flavour.