took his leave, blending a
decent melancholy with the air of importance and hurry proper to a man
involved in so much business.

This week she had not entered for the missing word competition; and as
few things interested Polly in which she had no personal concern, the
morning on which the result was published found her in her ordinary
frame of mind. She was thinking of Gammon, determined to hold him to
his engagement, but more out of obstinacy than in obedience to the
dictates of her heart, which had of late grown decidedly less fervid.
Gammon could keep her respectably; he would make a very presentable
husband; she did not fear ill treatment from him. On the other hand,
she felt only too certain that he would be the stronger. When it came
to a struggle (the inevitable result of marriage in Polly's mind)
Gammon was not the man to give in. She remembered the battle at Mrs.
Bubb's. All very well, that kind of thing, in days of courtship, but
after marriage--no! Some girls might be willing to find their master.
Polly had always meant to rule, and that undisputedly.

Breakfasting in her bedroom at ten o'clock, she was surprised by the
receipt of a telegram. It came from Christopher Parish and ran thus:

"Great news. Do meet me at entrance to Liverpool Street Station one
o'clock. Wonderful news."

What this news could be puzzled her for a moment; then she remembered
that Mr. Parish had spoke of a possible "rise" at Swettenham's early in
the New Year. That must be it. He had got an increase of salary;
perhaps five shillings a week more; no doubt.

Would that make any difference? Was it "good enough"? So her thoughts
phrased the anxious question.

Regarding Christopher one thing was certain--he would be her very
humble slave. She imagined herself his wife, she pictured him inclining
to revolt, she saw the results of that feeble insubordination, and
laughed aloud. Christopher was respectable; he would undoubtedly
continue to rise at Swettenham's, he would take a pride in the
magnificence of her costume. When her temper called for natural relief
she could quarrel with him by the hour without the least apprehension,
and in the end would graciously forgive him. Yes, there was much to be
said for Christopher.

A little before one o'clock she was at Liverpool Street, sheltered from
a drizzle that brought down all the smoke of myriad chimneys. A slim
figure in overcoat and shining hat rushed through the puddles towards
her