He had since told all there was to tell about his family and circumstances, Polly in return throwing out a few vague hints as to her own private affairs.  Christopher would have liked to invite her to his home, but lacked courage; his mother, his brother, and Mrs. Theodore—­what would they say?  The rigour of their principles overawed him.  He often thought of abandoning his home, but neither for that step had he the necessary spirit of independence.  Miss Sparkes no longer seemed to him of virtues compact; he sadly admitted in his wakeful hours that she had a temper; he often doubted whether she ever gave him a serious thought.  But the fact remained that Polly did not send him about his business, and at times even seemed glad to see him, until that awful night when, by deplorable accident, he encountered her near Lincoln’s Inn.  That surely was the end of everything.  Christopher, after tottering home he knew not how, wept upon his pillow.  Of course he was jealous as well as profoundly hurt.  Not without some secret reason had Polly met him so fiercely, brutally.  He would try to think of her no more; she was clearly not destined to be his.

For a full fortnight he shunned the whole region of London in which Polly might be met.  He was obliged, of course, to pass each night in Kennington, but he kept himself within doors there.  Then he could bear his misery no longer.  Three lachrymose letters had elicited no response; he wrote once more, and thus: 

DEAREST MISS SPARKES,

If you do not wish to be the cause of my death I hereby ask you to see me, if only for the very shortest space of time.  If you refuse I know I shall do something rash.  To-night and tomorrow night at half-past ten I will be standing at the south end of Westminster Bridge.  The river will be near me if you are not; remember that.

Yours for now and eternity,
C.J.P.

To this dread summons Polly at length yielded.  She met Christopher, and they paced together on the embankment in front of St. Thomas’s Hospital.  It rained a little, and was so close that they both dripped with perspiration.

“P’r’aps I was a bit short with you,” Polly admitted after listening to her admirer’s remonstrances, uttered in a choking voice.  “But I can’t stand being spied after, and spied after I won’t be.”

“I have told you, Polly, at the very least sixty or seventy times, that I’ve never done such a thing, and wouldn’t, and couldn’t.  It never came into my ’ead.”

“Well, then, we won’t say no more about it, and don’t put me out again, that’s all.”

“But there’s something else, Polly.  You know very well, Polly, what a lot I think of you, don’t you now?”

“Oh, I dessay,” she replied with careless indulgence.

“Then why won’t you let me see you oftener, and—­and that kind of thing, you know?”

This was vague, but perfectly intelligible to the hearer.  She gave an impatient little laugh.