Happy Pollyooly | Page 4

like bacon?" he cried in astounded tones. "That explains
everything. I've always wondered about you. Now I know. You are one
of those whom the gods love; and I can't conceive why you didn't die
younger."
"I don't know what you mean," said Hilary Vance, bristling and
scowling again.
"You don't? Well, it doesn't matter. But I'm really very much obliged to
you for relieving me of all anxiety about those children."
They discussed the hour at which Pollyooly and the Lump should come,
and then the Honourable John Ruffin held out his hand.
But Hilary Vance rose and came to the front door with him. On the

threshold he coughed gently and said:
"I should like you to see Flossie."
"Flossie?" said the Honourable John Ruffin. "Ah--the WOMAN." He
looked at Hilary Vance very earnestly. "Yes, I see--I see--of course her
name would be Flossie." Then he added sternly:
"No; if I saw her James might accuse me of having encouraged you. He
would, in fact. He always does."
"She's only at the florist's just at the end of the street," said Hilary
Vance in a persuasive tone.
"She would be," said the Honourable John Ruffin in a tone of
extraordinary patience. "I don't know why it is that the WOMAN is so
often at a florist's at the end of the street. It seems to be one of nature's
strange whims." His face grew very gloomy again and in a very sad
tone he added:
"Good-bye, poor old chap; good-bye!"
He shook hands firmly with his puzzled friend and started briskly up
the street. Ten yards up it he paused, turned and called back:
"She's everything that's womanly, isn't she?"
"Yes--everything," cried Hilary Vance with fervour.
The Honourable John Ruffin shook his head sadly and without another
word walked briskly on.
Hilary Vance, still looking puzzled, shut the door and went back to his
studio. He failed, therefore, to perceive the Honourable John Ruffin
enter the florist's shop at the end of the street. He did not come out of it
for a quarter of an hour, and then he came out smiling. Seeing that he
only brought with him a single rose, he had taken some time over its
selection.

CHAPTER II
HILARY VANCE FINDS A CONFIDANTE
That afternoon, when Pollyooly was helping him pack his portmanteau
for his journey to Buda-Pesth, the Honourable John Ruffin told her of
the arrangement he had made with Hilary Vance, that she and the Lump
should spend the time till his return at the studio at Chelsea.
Pollyooly's face brightened; and there was something of the joy which
warriors feel in foemen worthy of their steel in the tone in which she
said:
"Thank you, sir. I shall like that. It will be a change for the Lump; and
I've always wanted to know what that studio would look like if once it
were properly cleaned. That Mrs. Thomas who works for Mr. Vance
does let it get so dirty."
"Yes; I told Mr. Vance that I was sure that you'd get the place really
clean for him," said the Honourable John Ruffin with a chuckle.
"Oh, yes; I will," said Pollyooly firmly.
The Honourable John Ruffin chuckled again, and said:
"Mr. Vance is going to have the spring cleaning of a lifetime."
"Yes, sir. It's not quite summer-time yet," said Pollyooly.
The next morning before taking the train to Buda-Pesth, he despatched
her, the Lump, and the brown tin box which contained their clothes, to
Chelsea in a taxicab. Hilary Vance welcomed them with the most
cordial exuberance, led the way to his spare bedroom, and with an
entire unconsciousness of that bedroom's amazing resemblance to a
long-forgotten dust-bin, invited Pollyooly to unpack the box and make
herself at home.
Pollyooly gazed slowly round the room, and then she looked at her host

in some discomfort. She was a well-mannered child, and careful of the
feelings of a host. Then she said in a hesitating voice:
"I think I should like to--to--dust out the room before I unpack, please."
"By all means--by all means," said Hilary Vance cheerfully; and he
went back to his work.
Owing to his absorption in it he failed to perceive the curious measures
Pollyooly took to dust out the bedroom. She put on an apron, fastened
up her hair and covered it with a large cotton handkerchief, rolled up
her sleeves, and carried a broom, two pails of hot water from the
kitchen, a scrubbing-brush, and a very large piece of soap into the room
she proposed to dust. She shut herself in, took the counterpane off the
bed, shook it with furious vigour, and even more vigourously still
banged it against the end of the bedstead. When she had finished with it
the counterpane was hardly