sufficiently consoling to his affianced wife. For Polly was pretty,
especially on alternate Sunday afternoons, and when at ten p.m. she
returned from her outings, she was generally met in the passage by one
or other of the men. Polly liked to receive the homage of real
gentlemen, and set her white cap at all indifferently. Thus, just before
Clara knocked on that memorable Sunday afternoon, Polly, being confined
to the house by the unwritten code regulating the lives of servants, was
amusing herself by flirting with Peters.

"You _are_ fond of me a little bit," the graceless Tom whispered,
"aren't you?"

"You know I am, sir," Polly replied.

"You don't care for anyone else in the house?"

"Oh no, sir, and never let anyone kiss me but you. I wonder how it is,
sir?" Polly replied ingenuously.

"Give me another," Tom answered.

She gave him another, and tripped to the door to answer Clara's knock.

[Illustration: POLLY AND ROXDAL.]

And that very evening, when Clara was gone and Tom still out, Polly
turned without the faintest atom of scrupulosity, or even jealousy, to
the more fascinating Roxdal, and accepted his amorous advances. If it
would seem at first sight that Everard had less excuse for such
frivolity than his friend, perhaps the seriousness he showed in this