He ought to
have a buggy, and a second horse. But there could be no question of it
in the meantime, or of a great deal else besides. He wanted to buy Polly
a piano, for instance; all her friends had pianos; and she played and
sang very prettily. She needed more dresses and bonnets, too, than he
was able to allow her, as well as a change to the seaside in the summer
heat. The first spare money he had should go towards one or the other.
He loved to give Polly pleasure; never was such a contented little soul
as she. And well for him that it was so. To have had a complaining, even
an impatient wife at his side, just now, would have been unbearable. But
Polly did not know what impatience meant; her sunny temper, her fixed
resolve to make the best of everything was not to be shaken.
Well, comforts galore should be hers some day, he hoped. The practice
was shaping satisfactorily. His attendance at Dandaloo had proved a key
to many doors: folk of the Glendinnings' and Urquharts' standing could
make a reputation or mar it as they chose. It had got abroad, he knew,
that at whatever hour of the day or night he was sent for, he could be
relied on to be sober; and that unfortunately was not always the case
with some of his colleagues. In addition his fellow-practitioners showed
signs of waking up to his existence. He had been called in lately to a
couple of consultations; and the doyen of the profession on Ballarat,
old Munce himself, had praised his handling of a difficult case of
version.
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