Polly screwed her lips, as if she had a pin between them, and continued:  ’Miss Rose was quite sensible when she praised you as her friend; she meant it—­every word; and then sudden what does Mr. Laxley do, but say you was something else besides friend—­worse or better; and she was silent, which made him savage, I could hear by his voice.  And he said, Mr. Harrington, “You meant it if she did not.”  “No,” says she, “I know better; he’s as honest as the day.”  Out he flew and said such things:  he said, Mr. Harrington, you wasn’t fit to be Miss Rose’s friend, even.  Then she said, she heard he had told lies about you to her Mama, and her aunts; but her Mama, my lady, laughed at him, and she at her aunts.  Then he said you—­oh, abominable of him!’

‘What did he say?’ asked Evan, waking up.

‘Why, if I were to tell my Miss Rose some things of him,’ Polly went on, ‘she’d never so much as speak to him another instant.’

‘What did he say?’ Evan repeated.

‘I hate him!’ cried Polly.  ’It’s Mr. Laxley that misleads Mr. Harry, who has got his good nature, and means no more harm than he can help.  Oh, I didn’t hear what he said of you, sir.  Only I know it was abominable, because Miss Rose was so vexed, and you were her dearest friend.’

‘Well, and about the looking-glass?’

’That was at night, Mr. Harrington, when I was undressing of her.  Miss Rose has a beautiful figure, and no need of lacing.  But I’d better get down now.’

‘For heaven’s sake, stay where you are.’

‘I tell her she stands as if she’d been drilled for a soldier,’ Polly quietly continued.  ’You’re squeezing my arm with your elbow, Mr. Harrington.  It didn’t hurt me.  So when I had her nearly undressed, we were talking about this and that, and you amongst ’em—­and I, you know, rather like you, sir, if you’ll not think me too bold—­she started off by asking me what was the nickname people gave to tailors.  It was one of her whims.  I told her they were called snips—­I’m off!’

Polly gave a shriek.  The horse had reared as if violently stung.

‘Go on,’ said Evan.  ‘Hold hard, and go on.’

’Snips—­Oh! and I told her they were called snips.  It is a word that seems to make you hate the idea.  I shouldn’t like to hear my intended called snip.  Oh, he’s going to gallop!’

And off in a gallop Polly was borne.

‘Well,’ said Evan, ‘well?’

‘I can’t, Mr. Harrington; I have to press you so,’ cried Polly; ’and I’m bounced so—­I shall bite my tongue.’

After a sharp stretch, the horse fell to a canter, and then trotted slowly, and allowed Polly to finish.

’So Miss Rose was standing sideways to the glass, and she turned her neck, and just as I’d said “snip,” I saw her saying it in the glass; and you never saw anything so funny.  It was enough to make anybody laugh; but Miss Rose, she seemed as if she couldn’t forget how ugly it had made her look.  She covered her face with her hands, and she shuddered!  It is a word-snip! that makes you seem to despise yourself.’