POLLY CONDESCENDS

There was time enough for Polly to reply to this invitation, but reply she did not.  None the less, Gammon was walking about near her lodgings at ten o’clock on Sunday morning.  It seemed to him that he once or twice perceived a face at an upper window, but at a quarter past the hour Miss Sparkes had not come forth.  He was on the point of going boldly to the door when a recognizable figure approached—­that of Mr. Nibby.  The men hailed each other.

“Waiting for somebody?” inquired the representative of the Gillingwater burner, a twinkle in his eye.

To avoid the risk of complications Gammon avowed that he was looking out for Miss Sparkes, with whom he wanted a word on private business.

“First rate!” exclaimed Mr. Nibby.  “She’s coming along with Miss Waghorn and me to my brother’s at ’Endon—­the “Blue Anchor”; do you know it?  Nice little property.  You’ll have to join us; first rate.  I’m only afraid it may rine.  Do you think it will rine?”

“May or may not,” replied Gammon, staring at the clouds and thinking over the situation as it concerned himself.  “If it’s going to rine, it will, you know.”

“That’s true.  I’ll just let ’em know I’m here.”

But at this moment the two young ladies came forth, blushing and resplendent.  Hats were doffed and hands were shaken.

“Why, is that you, Mr. Gammon?” cried Carrie Waghorn when the ceremony was over, as if only just aware of his presence.  “Well, this is a surprise, isn’t it, Polly?”

Miss Sparkes seemed barely to recognize Mr. Gammon, but of necessity she took a place by his side, and walked on with a rhythmic tossing of the head, which had a new adornment—­a cluster of great blue flowers, unknown to the botanist, in the place of her everyday poppies.

“If you don’t want me,” remarked Gammon, glancing at her, “you’ve only to say so, and I’m off.”

Polly looked up at the sky, and answered with a question.

“Do you think it’s going to rine?”

“Shouldn’t wonder.”

“Well, you are polite.”

“What’s the rine got to do with politeness?  I say, why didn’t you answer my letter?”

“I pay no attention to impertinence,” replied Miss Sparkes haughtily.

“Oh, that’s it?  Never mind; we shall get on better presently.  I say, Polly, do you see you’ve left marks on my face?”

Polly set her lips and kept a severe silence.

“I don’t mind ’em,” Gammon continued.  “Rather proud of ’em.  If anybody asks me how I got the scratches—­”

The girl looked sharply at him.

“Do you mean to say you’d tell?  Well, if you call that gentlemanly—­”

“Wouldn’t tell the truth, Polly, not for as many kisses as there are scratches, my dear.”

Polly bridled—­young women of her class still bridle—­but looked rather pleased.  And Gammon chuckled to himself, thinking that all went well.