Alas! he did not look into Polly's face, which in the dusk of the
doorway had turned towards his.
"I'll be going then," he muttered. "Good night. Jolly long walk
before me still."
"I'm very sorry. I am, really."
"Oh, never mind! When shall I see you again?"
The crucial moment was past. Polly drew a step back and held the
door.
"I'll write before long. Good night, and thank you."
Mr. Parish plodded away down the avenue, saying to himself that he
was blest if he'd be made a fool of like this much longer.
The next morning Polly wrote a line to Mr. Gammon, and two days
later, on Sunday, they met in that little strip of garden on the
Embankment which lies between Charing Cross Station and Waterloo
Bridge. It was the first week of October; a cold wind rustled the
yellowing plane trees, and open-air seats offered no strong
temptation. The two conversed as they walked along. Polly had not
mentioned in her letter any special reason for wishing to see Mr.
Gammon, nor did she hasten to make known her discovery.
"Why do you wear a 'at like that on a Sunday?" she began by asking,
tartly.
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