He, sat down in his room at night and wrote a fairly manful letter to Rose; and it is to be said of the wretch he then saw himself, that he pardoned her for turning from so vile a pretender.  He heard a step in the passage.  It was Polly Wheedle.  Polly had put her young mistress to bed, and was retiring to her own slumbers.  He made her take the letter and promise to deliver it immediately.  Would not to-morrow morning do, she asked, as Miss Rose was very sleepy.  He seemed to hesitate—­he was picturing how Rose looked when very sleepy.  Why should he surrender this darling?  And subtler question—­why should he make her unhappy?  Why disturb her at all in her sweet sleep?

‘Well,’ said Evan.  ’To-morrow will do.—­No, take it to-night, for God’s sake!’ he cried, as one who bursts the spell of an opiate.  ‘Go at once.’  The temptation had almost overcome him.

Polly thought his proceedings queer.  And what could the letter contain?  A declaration, of course.  She walked slowly along the passage, meditating on love, and remotely on its slave, Mr. Nicholas Frim.  Nicholas had never written her a letter; but she was determined that he should, some day.  She wondered what love-letters were like?  Like valentines without the Cupids.  Practical valentines, one might say.  Not vapoury and wild, but hot and to the point.  Delightful things!  No harm in peeping at a love-letter, if you do it with the eye of a friend.

Polly spelt just a word when a door opened at her elbow.  She dropped her candle and curtsied to the Countess’s voice.  The Countess desired her to enter, and all in a tremble Polly crept in.  Her air of guilt made the Countess thrill.  She had merely called her in to extract daily gossip.  The corner of the letter sticking up under Polly’s neck attracted her strangely, and beginning with the familiar, ‘Well, child,’ she talked of things interesting to Polly, and then exhibited the pic-nic dress.  It was a lovely half-mourning; airy sorrows, gauzy griefs, you might imagine to constitute the wearer.  White delicately striped, exquisitely trimmed, and of a stuff to make the feminine mouth water!

Could Polly refuse to try it on, when the flattering proposal met her ears?  Blushing, shame-faced, adoring the lady who made her look adorable, Polly tried it on, and the Countess complimented her, and made a doll of her, and turned her this way and that way, and intoxicated her.

‘A rich husband, Polly, child! and you are a lady ready made.’

Infamous poison to poor Polly; but as the thunder destroys small insects, exalted schemers are to be excused for riding down their few thousands.  Moreover, the Countess really looked upon domestics as being only half-souls.

Dressed in her own attire again, Polly felt in her pockets, and at her bosom, and sang out:  ‘Oh, my—­Oh, where!  Oh!’

The letter was lost.  The letter could not be found.  The Countess grew extremely fatigued, and had to dismiss Polly, in spite of her eager petitions to be allowed to search under the carpets and inside the bed.