“Miss Sparkes!”

“Well?”

“Will you come with me to see my bow-wows this fine day?”

“No, Mr. Gammon, I certainly will not!”

“Thank you, Polly, I felt a bit afraid you might say yes.”

The tone was not offensive, whatever the words might be, and the laugh that came after would have softened any repartee, with its undernote of good humour and harmless gaiety.  Biting her lips to preserve the dignity of silence, Polly passed downstairs.  Sunshine through a landing window illumined the dust floating thickly about the staircase and heated the familiar blend of lodging-house smells—­the closeness of small rooms that are never cleansed, the dry rot of wall-paper, plaster, and old wood, the fustiness of clogged carpets trodden thin, the ever-rising vapours from a sluttish kitchen.  As Moggie happened to be wiping down the front steps the door stood open, affording a glimpse of trams and omnibuses, cabs and carts, with pedestrians bobbing past in endless variety—­the life of Kennington Road—­all dust and sweat under a glaring summer sun.  To Miss Sparkes a cheery and inviting spectacle—­for the whole day was before her, to lounge or ramble until the hour which summoned her to the agreeable business of selling programmes at a fashionable theatre.  The employment was precarious; even with luck in the way of tips it meant nothing very brilliant; but something had happened lately which made Polly indifferent to this view of the matter.  She had a secret, and enjoyed it all the more because it enabled her to excite not envy alone, but dark suspicions in the people who observed her.

Mrs. Bubb, for instance—­who so far presumed upon old acquaintance as to ask blunt questions, and offer homely advice—­plainly thought she was going astray.  It amused Polly to encourage this misconception, and to take offence on every opportunity.  As she went down into the kitchen she fingered a gold watch-chain that hung from her blouse to a little pocket at her waist.  Mrs. Bubb would spy it at once, and in course of the quarrel about this morning’s hot water would be sure to allude to it.

It turned out one of the finest frays Polly had ever enjoyed, and was still rich in possibilities when, at something past eleven, the kitchen door suddenly opened and there entered Mr. Gammon.

CHAPTER II

A MISSING UNCLE

He glanced at Mrs. Bubb, at the disorderly remnants of breakfast on the long deal table, then at Polly, whose face was crimson with the joy of combat.

“Don’t let me interrupt you, ladies.  Blaze away! if I may so express myself.  It does a man good to see such energy on a warm morning.”

“I’ve said all I’m a-goin’ to say,” exclaimed Mrs. Bubb, as she mopped her forehead with a greasy apron.  “I’ve warned her, that’s all, and I mean her well, little as she deserves it.  Now, you, Moggie, don’t stand gahpin’ there git them breakfast things washed up, can’t you?  It’ll be tea time agin before the beds is made.  And what’s come to you this morning?”