“It’s all over, Miss Sparkes.  We have no more hope.  This last cable settles it.  Don’t let me agitate you.  But I thought it best that you should come here and see the cable for yourself.”  Sinking his voice and with his lips at her ear he added, “Your uncle is dead.”

Polly was not overcome.

“Is it reely him this time?”

“Clover—­not a doubt of it.  I got on his track, but too late, he was off to South Africa.  Here is a cable from the Cape.  He died at sea—­some obscure disease, probably an affection of the heart—­and was buried off the West Coast.  Read it for yourself.  ’Clover, second cabin passenger, died and buried 23.4 S., 8.2 S.; effects await instructions.’  There he lies at the bottom of the sea, poor fellow.  This is only a confirmatory cable; I have spent lots of money in learning particulars.  Perhaps you would like to see one of the officials about it, Miss Sparkes?  Unfortunately they can only repeat what I have told you.”

Polly had no desire to hold converse with these gentlemen; she was thoroughly awed and convinced by Greenacre’s tones and the atmosphere of the office.

“I have already communicated with your aunt.  I dare say you would like to go and see her.”

But neither for this had Polly any present inclination.  She wanted to be alone and to reflect.  Having made sure that she was not likely to visit Mrs. Clover forthwith, Greenacre took his leave, blending a decent melancholy with the air of importance and hurry proper to a man involved in so much business.

This week she had not entered for the missing word competition; and as few things interested Polly in which she had no personal concern, the morning on which the result was published found her in her ordinary frame of mind.  She was thinking of Gammon, determined to hold him to his engagement, but more out of obstinacy than in obedience to the dictates of her heart, which had of late grown decidedly less fervid.  Gammon could keep her respectably; he would make a very presentable husband; she did not fear ill treatment from him.  On the other hand, she felt only too certain that he would be the stronger.  When it came to a struggle (the inevitable result of marriage in Polly’s mind) Gammon was not the man to give in.  She remembered the battle at Mrs. Bubb’s.  All very well, that kind of thing, in days of courtship, but after marriage—­no!  Some girls might be willing to find their master.  Polly had always meant to rule, and that undisputedly.

Breakfasting in her bedroom at ten o’clock, she was surprised by the receipt of a telegram.  It came from Christopher Parish and ran thus: 

“Great news.  Do meet me at entrance to Liverpool Street Station one o’clock.  Wonderful news.”

What this news could be puzzled her for a moment; then she remembered that Mr. Parish had spoke of a possible “rise” at Swettenham’s early in the New Year.  That must be it.  He had got an increase of salary; perhaps five shillings a week more; no doubt.