And yet, even while agreeing
that it would be well to put "mother" off, Polly drooped her wings. At a
time like this a woman was a woman. It seemed as if even the best of
husbands did not quite understand.
"Just give her the hint we don't want her," said Mahony airily.
But "mother" was not the person to take a hint, no matter how broad. It
was necessary to be blunt to the point of rudeness; and Polly spent a
difficult hour over the composition of her letter. She might have saved
her pains. Mrs. Beamish replied that she knew her darling little Polly's
unwillingness to give trouble; but it was not likely she would now go
back on her word: she had been packed and ready to start for the past
week. Polly handed the letter to her husband, and did not say what she
thought she read out of it, namely that "mother," who so seldom could be
spared from home, was looking forward with pleasure to her trip to
Ballarat.
"I suppose it's a case of making the best of a bad job," sighed Mahony;
and having one day drawn Mrs. Beamish, at melting point, from the inside
of a crowded coach, he loaded Long Jim with her bags and bundles.
His aversion was not lightened by his subsequently coming on his wife in
the act of unpacking a hamper, which contained half a ham, a stone jar
of butter, some home-made loaves of bread, a bag of vegetables and a
plum pudding. "Good God! does the woman think we can't give her enough
to eat?" he asked testily.
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