“Honour bright, they shan’t hear a whisper of it.”

So on a Sunday morning they made the journey by omnibus for the sake of the fresh air, Polly remarking again and again on her great condescension, reaffirming her dislike of dogs, and declaring that if a drop of rain fell she would turn about homeward forthwith.  None the less did she appear to find pleasure in Mr. Gammon’s society.  If his gossip included a casual mention of some young lady, a friend of his, she pressed for information concerning that person, and never seemed quite satisfied with what she was told about her.  Slyly observant of this, her companion multiplied his sportive allusions, and was amused to find Polly grow waspish.  Then again he soothed her with solid flattery; nothing of the kind was too gross for Polly’s appetite.  And so conversing they shortened the journey to remote Dulwich.

With gathered skirts and a fear, partly real but more affected, Miss Sparkes entered the yard where Gammon’s dogs were kept. (As a matter of fact he shared in their ownership with the landlord of the public-house, a skilful breeder.) When puppies gambolled about her she woke the echoes with a scream.  From a fine terrier, a “game” dog whose latest exploit was the killing of a hundred rats in six minutes, she backed trembling, and even put out a hand to Gammon as if for protection.  Polly’s behaviour, indeed, was such as would have been proper in a fine lady forty years ago, the fashion having descended to her class just as fashions in costume are wont to do at a shorter interval.  When Gammon begged her to feel the “feather” of a beautiful collie she at length did so with great timidity, and a moment after, to show how doggy she was becoming, she spoke of the “feather” of a little black-and-tan, whereat Gammon smiled broadly.  On the whole they much enjoyed themselves, and had a good appetite at dinner time.

The meal was laid for them in a small private room, which smelt principally of stale tobacco and stale chimney soot.  The water-bottle on the table was encrusted with a white enamel advertisement of somebody’s whisky, and had another such recommendation legible on its base.  The tray used by the girl in attendance was enamelled with the name of somebody’s brandy.  On the walls hung three brightly-coloured calendars, each an advertisement:  one of sewing machines, one of a popular insurance office, one of a local grocery business.  The other mural adornments were old coloured pictures of racehorses and faded photographs of dogs.  A clock on the mantelpiece (not going) showed across its face the name of a firm that dealt in aerated waters.

Coarse and plentiful were the viands, and Polly did justice to them.  She had excellent teeth, a very uncommon thing in girls of her kind; but Polly’s parents were of country origin.  With these weapons she feared not even the pastry set before her, which it was just possible to break with an ordinary fork.