"

Pollyooly frowned thoughtfully: "Well, I could write. There are people
who would tell me what to write," she said in the sad tone of one
confronted with an uncongenial task. "Then you could consider Millie
carefully. I'm sure you couldn't find an orphan who's more--more of an
orphan than Millie."

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be any use--not at this time of year," said the
duke almost cheerfully, as he saw that in an irreproachable fashion he
was getting his own disobliging way.

Pollyooly filled with the bitter sense of defeat. She heaved a deep
sigh and was on the point of rising to go, when the last adjuration of
the Honourable John Ruffin flashed into her mind, and on the instant
she grew eager to try the new weapon he had suggested. She looked at
the duke with a calculating eye. Nature, thinking probably that if was
enough for a man to be a duke, had not been lavish of beauty to him:
his somewhat small features were often set in an unamiable expression,
and with the faint light of evil satisfaction at baulking Pollyooly now
on them, they looked more unamiable than usual. He did not indeed seem
to be a man to be easily softened. But the matter was far too
important for her to lose the only chance left.

Very deliberately she drew her handkerchief from her pocket, blinked
her eyes hard to make them water, hid them under the handkerchief,
sniffed once but loudly, and then sobbed.

"It's very--hard--on Millie--she'll be--dreadfully--disappointed!"

A sudden consternation smote the duke. He had looked to make himself
completely disagreeable at his ease, certainly without any such assault
on his feelings as this. He shuffled his feet and said hurriedly:

"It's no good crying about it. It can't be helped, you know."

Pollyooly's quick ear caught the change in his tone. She sobbed more
loudly:

"Oh, yes--it can--you could do it--if you wanted to!"

"These things have to be done in the proper way," protested the duke.

"It isn't that. You--you--don't like Millie!" sobbed Pollyooly,
watching the weakening face of the perturbed nobleman with an intent
eye over the top of her handkerchief. "You--you--hate her!"

"Why, I've never set eyes on her!" cried the duke.

"Oh, yes: you do--and it's--it's beastly," sobbed Pollyooly.

No duke likes to hear his conduct described as beastly by an angel
child--especially when the description happens to be accurate--and the
duke ground his teeth.

Pollyooly, wat