. . shall you . . .
I mean, are you going to accept him, Tilly?"
But this was just where Tilly could not make up her mind: should she
take him, or should she not? For two whole days she sat about debating
the question; and Polly listened to her with all the sympathy and
interest so momentous a step deserved.
"If you feel you could really learn to care for him, dear. Of course it
WOULD be nice for you to have a house of your own. And how happy it
would make poor mother to see you settled!"
Tilly tore the last veil from her feelings, uttered gross confidences.
Polly knew well enough where her real inclination lay. "I've hoped
against hope, Poll, that a CERTAIN PERSON would come to the scratch at
last." Yes, it was true enough, he had nothing to offer her; but she
wasn't the sort to have stuck at that. "I'd have worked my hands to the
bone for 'im, Poll, if 'e'd ONLY said the word." The one drawback to
marriage with "you know 'oo" would have been his infirmity. "Some'ow,
Polly, I can't picture myself dragging a husband with a gammy leg at my
heels." From this, Tilly's mind glanced back to the suitor who had
honourably declared himself. Of course "old O." hadn't a great deal of
the gentleman about him; and their ages were unsuitable. "'E owns to
fifty-eight, and as you know, Poll, I'm only just turned twenty-five,"
at which Polly drooped her head a little lower over the handkerchief she
was hemming, to avoid meeting her friend's eye.
Pages:
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365