He had not once consciously thought of Polly
since his return. Now, when he did so, he found to his surprise that she
had made herself quite a warm little nest in his memory. Looked back on,
she stood out in high relief against her somewhat graceless
surroundings. Small doubt she was both maidenly and refined. He also
remembered with a sensible pleasure her brisk service, her consideration
for others. What a boon it would have been, during the past week, to
have a busy, willing little woman at work, with him and for him, behind
the screen! As it was, for want of a helping hand the place was like a
pigsty. He had had neither time nor energy to clean up. The marks of
hobnailed boots patterned the floor; loose mud, and crumbs from meals,
had been swept into corners or under the stretcher-bed; while
commodities that had overflowed the shop added to the disorder. Good
Lord, no! . . . no place this for a woman.
He rose and moved restlessly about, turning things over with his foot:
these old papers should be burnt, and that heap of straw-packing; those
empty sardine and coffee-tins be thrown into the refuse-pit. Scrubbed
and clean, it was by no means an uncomfortable room; and the stove drew
well. He was proud of his stove; many houses had not even a chimney. He
stood and stared at it; but his thoughts were elsewhere: he found
himself trying to call to mind Polly's face. Except for a pair of big
black eyes--magnificent eyes they seemed to him in retrospect--he had
carried away with him nothing of her outward appearance.
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