Evan failed to adopt the proper measures to make Miss Wheedle’s mind easy with regard to her appearance, and she commenced her story rather languidly.

’My Miss Rose—­what was it I was going to tell?  Oh!—­my Miss Rose.  You must know, Mr. Harrington, she’s very fond of managing; I can see that, though I haven’t known her long before she gave up short frocks; and she said to Mr. Laxley, who’s going to marry her some day, “She didn’t like my lady, the Countess, taking Mr. Harry to herself like that.”  I can’t a-bear to speak his name, but I suppose he’s not a bit more selfish than the rest of men.  So Mr. Laxley said—­just like the jealousy of men—­they needn’t talk of women!  I’m sure nobody can tell what we have to put up with.  We mustn’t look out of this eye, or out of the other, but they’re up and—­oh, dear me! there’s such a to-do as never was known—­all for nothing!’

‘My good girl!’ said Evan, recalling her to the subject-matter with all the patience he could command.

‘Where was I?’ Polly travelled meditatively back.  ’I do feel a little cold.’

‘Come closer,’ said Evan.  ’Take this handkerchief—­it ’s the only dry thing I have—­cover your chest with it.’

‘The shoulders feel wettest,’ Polly replied, ’and they can’t be helped.  I’ll tie it round my neck, if you’ll stop, sir.  There, now I’m warmer.’

To show how concisely women can narrate when they feel warmer, Polly started off: 

’So, you know, Mr. Harrington, Mr. Laxley said—­he said to Miss Rose, “You have taken her brother, and she has taken yours.”  And Miss Rose said, “That was her own business, and nobody else’s.”  And Mr. Laxley said, “He was glad she thought it a fair exchange.”  I heard it all!  And then Miss Rose said—­for she can be in a passion about some things”—­ What do you mean, Ferdinand,” was her words, “I insist upon your speaking out.”  Miss Rose always will call gentlemen by their Christian names when she likes them; that’s always a sign with her.  And he wouldn’t tell her.  And Miss Rose got awful angry, and she’s clever, is my Miss Rose, for what does she do, Mr. Harrington, but begins praising you up so that she knew it must make him mad, only because men can’t abide praise of another man when it’s a woman that says it—­meaning, young lady; for my Miss Rose has my respect, however familiar she lets herself be to us that she likes.  The others may go and drown themselves.  Are you took ill, sir?’

‘No,’ said Evan, ‘I was only breathing.’

‘The doctors say it’s bad to take such long breaths,’ remarked artless Polly.  ‘Perhaps my arms are pressing you?’

It ‘s the best thing they can do,’ murmured Evan, dejectedly.

‘What, sir?’

‘Go and drown themselves.’