substantially by the connexion, and by consequence that young lady’s husband.  No one could have been freer from secondary motives than he, when he found himself falling in love with Polly; and if it turned out a marriage of unforeseen brilliancy, why, so much the better.  Polly had not altered towards him—­dear, affectionate girl that she was I He would act honourably; she should have the chance of reconsidering her position; but—­

A damsel, sparingly clad, was singing in the serio-comic vein, with a dance after each stanza.  As he sipped his whisky, and watched and listened, Gammon felt his heart glow within him.  The melody was lulling; it had a refrain of delicious sentiment.  The listener’s eyes grew moist; there rose a lump in his throat.  Dear Polly!  Lovely Polly!  Would he not cherish her to the day of his death?  How could he have fancied that he loved anyone else?  Darling Polly!

When the singer withdrew he clapped violently, and thereupon called for another Scotch hot, with lemon.

As a matter of course a friend soon discovered him, a man who declared himself in a whisper “stonebroke,” and said, after a glass of the usual beverage, that if the truth must be told he had looked in here this evening to save himself from the torments of despair.  Three young children, and the missus just going to have another.  Did Gammon know of any opening in the cork line?

" Afraid not,” replied the traveller, “but I know a man out Hoxton way who’s pushing a new lamp-glass cleaner.  You might give him a look in.  It goes well, I’m told, in the eastern suburbs.”

Presently a coin of substantial value passed from Gammon’s pocket into that of his gloomy friend.

“Poor devil!” said the good fellow to himself.  “He married a tripe-dresser’s daughter, and she nags him.  Never had a chance to marry a jolly little girl who turned out to have a lord for her uncle!”

So he drank and applauded, and piped his eye and drank again, till it was time to meet Polly.  When he went forth into the cold street never was man more softly amorous, more mirthfully exultant, more kindly disposed to all the dwellers upon earth.  Life abounds in such forms of happiness, yet we are told that it is a sad and sorry affair!

CHAPTER XIX

NOT IN THE SECRET

Since his adventure in knight-errantry Christopher Parish had suffered terrible alternations of hope and despair.  For fear of offending Miss Sparkes he did not press for an explanation of the errand on which she had sent him enough that he was again permitted to see her, to entertain her modestly, and to hold her attention whilst he discoursed on the glories of the firm of Swettenham.  Every week supplied him with new and astounding Swettenham statistics.  He was able to report, as “an absolute fact,” that a junior member of the firm—­a junior, mind you—­was building a house at Eastbourne which would cost him, all told, not one penny less than sixty-five thousand pounds!  He would like to see that house; in fact, he must see it.  When Easter came round would Miss Sparkes honour him with her company on a day trip to Eastbourne, that they might gaze together on the appalling mansion?