"Just eleven. Time I was gettin' 'ome. There'll be a bus at the
corner."

"I hoped you were going to walk," urged Christopher timidly.

"S'pose I might just as well--if you'll take care of me."

It was a long time since Polly had been so gracious, so mild. All
the way down Whitehall, across the bridge, and into Kennington Road
she chatted of a hundred things, but never glanced at the one which
held complete possession of Christopher's mind. 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--"