She was but
two-and-twenty. Mr. Gammon had reached his fortieth year. In general
his tone of intimacy passed without rebuke; at moments it had seemed
not unacceptable. But Polly's temper was notoriously uncertain, and
her frankness never left people in doubt as to the prevailing mood.
"Would you like a little ball-pup. Miss Sparkes?" he pursued in a
conciliatory tone. "A lovely little button-ear? There's a new litter
say the word, and I'll bring you one."
"Thank you. I don't care for dogs."
"No? But I'm sure you would if you kept one. Now, I have a cobby
little fox terrier--just the dog for a lady. No? Or a sweet little
black-and-tan--just turning fifteen pounds, with a lovely neck and
kissing spots on both cheeks. I wouldn't offer her to everybody."
"Very good of you," replied Miss Sparkes contemptuously.
"Why ain't you goin' to business?" asked the landlady.
"I'll tell you. We had a little difference of opinion yesterday. The
governors have been disappointed about a new line in the fancy
leather; it wouldn't go, and I told them the reason, but that wasn't
good enough.
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