Many times he
brought himself all but to the point of mentioning it, yet his
courage invariably failed. The risk was too great; it needed such a
trifling provocation to disturb Polly's good humour. He perspired
under the warmth of the night and from the tumult of his feelings.
"You mustn't meet me again for a week," said Polly when her dwelling
was within sight.
"Why not?"
"Because I say so--that's enough, ain't it?"
"I say--Polly--"
"I've told you you're not to say 'Polly,'" she interrupted archly.
"You're awfully good, you know--but I wish--"
"What? Never mind; tell me next time. Ta-ta!"
She ran off, and Christopher had no heart to detain her. For five
minutes he hung over the parapet at Westminster, watching the black
flood and asking what was the use of life. On the whole Mr. Parish
found life decidedly agreeable, and after a night's rest, a little
worry notwithstanding, he could go to the City in the great morning
procession, one of myriads exactly like him, and would hopefully dip
his pen in the inkpots of Swettenham Brothers.
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