He would try to think of her no more;
she was clearly not destined to be his.
For a full fortnight he shunned the whole region of London in which
Polly might be met. He was obliged, of course, to pass each night in
Kennington, but he kept himself within doors there. Then he could
bear his misery no longer. Three lachrymose letters had elicited no
response; he wrote once more, and thus:
DEAREST MISS SPARKES,
If you do not wish to be the cause
of my death I hereby ask you to see me, if only for the very
shortest space of time. If you refuse I know I shall do something
rash. To-night and tomorrow night at half-past ten I will be
standing at the south end of Westminster Bridge. The _river_ will be
near me if _you_ are not; remember that.
Yours for now and eternity,
C.J.P.
To this dread summons Polly at length yielded. She met
Christopher, and they paced together on the embankment in front of
St. Thomas's Hospital. It rained a little, and was so close that
they both dripped with perspiration.
"P'r'aps I was a bit short with you," Polly admitted after listening
to her admirer's remonstrances, uttered in a choking voice.
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