Would that make any difference?  Was it “good enough”?  So her thoughts phrased the anxious question.

Regarding Christopher one thing was certain—­he would be her very humble slave.  She imagined herself his wife, she pictured him inclining to revolt, she saw the results of that feeble insubordination, and laughed aloud.  Christopher was respectable; he would undoubtedly continue to rise at Swettenham’s, he would take a pride in the magnificence of her costume.  When her temper called for natural relief she could quarrel with him by the hour without the least apprehension, and in the end would graciously forgive him.  Yes, there was much to be said for Christopher.

A little before one o’clock she was at Liverpool Street, sheltered from a drizzle that brought down all the smoke of myriad chimneys.  A slim figure in overcoat and shining hat rushed through the puddles towards her, waving an umbrella to the peril of other people speeding only less frantically.

“Polly!  I’ve got it!”

He could gasp no more; he seized her arm as if for support.

“How much is it?” she asked calmly.

“Five hundred and fifty pounds! Hyjene!”

“What—­five hundred and fifty a year?”

Christopher stared at her.

“You don’t understand.  The missing word.  I’ve got it this week.  Cheque for five hundred and fifty pounds! Hyjene!”

“Reely!”

“Look here—­here’s the cheque! Hyjene!”

Polly fingered the paper, studied the inscription.  All the time she was thinking that this sum of money would furnish a house in a style vastly superior to that of Mrs. Nibby’s.  Mrs. Nibby would go black in the face with envy, hatred, and malice.  As she reflected Christopher talked, drawing her to the least-frequented part of the huge roaring railway station.

“Will you, Polly?  Why don’t you speak?  Do, Polly, do!”

She all but spoke, would have done but for an ear-rending whistle from an engine.

“I shall have a rise, too, Polly.  I’m feeling my feet at Swettenham’s.  Who knows what I may get to?  Polly, I might—­I might some day have a big business of my own, and build a house at Eastbourne.  It’s all on the cards, Polly.  Others have done it before me.  Swettenham began as a clerk—­he did.  Think Polly, five hundred and fifty pounds!—­Hyjene!”

She met his eye; she nodded.

“You will?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Hooray! Hyjene forever!  Hooray-ay-ay!”

CHAPTER XXVII

THE TRAVELLER AT REST

Two or three days after this Gammon heard unexpectedly from Mrs. Clover, who enclosed for his perusal a letter she had just received from Polly Sparkes.  What, she asked, could be the meaning of Polly’s reference to her deceased uncle?  Was there never to be an end of mysteries and miseries in relation to that unhappy man?