“P’r’aps,” replied Polly, “if you’re good.”

Whereat Mr. Parish perspired with ecstasy, and began at once to plan the details of the outing.

Indeed, Polly was very gracious to him, and presently something happened which enhanced her graciousness—­perhaps increased her genuine liking for the amiable young man.  Her friend, Miss Waghorn, was about to be married to Mr. Nibby.  It was a cheerless time of the year for a wedding, but Mr. Nibby had just come in for a little legacy, on the strength of which he took a house in a southeast suburb, and furnished it on the hire system, with a splendour which caused Miss Waghorn to shriek in delight, and severely tested the magnanimity of Polly’s friendship.  Polly was to be a bridesmaid, and must needs have a becoming dress but where was it to come from?  Her perfidious uncle had vanished (she knew not yet who that uncle really was), and her “tips” of late had been—­in Polly’s language—­measly.  In the course of friendly chat she mentioned to Mr. Parish that the wedding was for that day week, and added, with head aside, that she couldn’t imagine what she was going to wear.

“I shall patch up some old dress, I s’pose.  Lucky it’s dark weather.”

Christopher became meditative, and seemed to shirk the subject.  But on the morrow there arrived for Polly a letter addressed in his handwriting—­an envelope rather—­which contained two postal orders, each for one pound, but not a word on the paper enfolding them.

“Well now,” cried Polly within herself, “if that ain’t gentlemanly of him!  Who’d a’ thought it!  And me just going to put my bracelet away!”

By which she meant that she was about to pawn her jewellery to procure a bridesmaid’s dress.  Gratitude, for the moment, quite overcame her.  She sat down and wrote a letter of thanks, so worded that the recipient was beside himself for a whole day.  He in turn wrote a letter of three full sheets, wherein, among other lyrical extravagances, he expressed a wish that by dying a death of slow torture he could endow Miss Sparkes with fabulous wealth.  How gladly would he perish, knowing that she would come to lay artificial flowers upon his grave, and to the end of her life see that the letters on his tombstone were kept legible

So Polly made a handsome appearance at the wedding.  As a matter of fact, she came near to exciting unpleasantness between bride and bridegroom, so indiscreet was Mr. Nibby in his spoken and silent admiration.  After consuming a great deal of indifferent champagne at Mr. Nibby’s lodgings the blissful couple departed to spend a week at Bournemouth, and Polly returned to the room in Shaftesbury Avenue, which henceforth she would occupy alone.  “And a good riddance!” she said to herself pettishly as she stripped off her wedding garments.

On this very evening she wrote to Mr. Gammon—­the letter he was never to read.

Mr. Gammon had received an invitation to the ceremony, but through pressure of business was unable to accept it.  He felt, too, that there would have been awkwardness in thus meeting with Polly for the first time since their rupture on the Embankment.