The doctor was not in a mood to approve of such philosophy, and he drove on, only showing--by an extra cut of his whip--the tone and temper that beset him. “You are to have a visit from Captain Stapylton tomorrow, papa?” said she, in the manner of a half question. “Who told you so?” said he, with a touch of eagerness in his voice; for suddenly it occurred to him if Polly knew of this appointment, she herself might be interested in its object. “He asked me what was the most likely time to find you at home, and also if he might venture to hope he should be presented to mamma.” That was, as the doctor thought, a very significant speech; it might mean a great deal,--a very great deal, indeed; and so he turned it over and over in his mind for some time before he spoke again. At last he said,-- “I haven't a notion what he's coming about, Polly,--have you?” “No, sir; except, perhaps, it be to consult you. He told me he had sprained his arm, or his shoulder, the other day, when his horse swerved.” “Oh no, it can't be that, Polly; it can't be that.” “Why not the pleasure of a morning call, then? He is an idle man, and finds time heavy on his hands.” A short “humph” showed that this explanation was not more successful than the former, and the doctor, rather irritated with this game of fence, for so he deemed it, said bluntly,-- “Has he been showing you any marked attentions of late? Have you noticed anything peculiar in his manner towards you?” “Nothing whatever, sir,” said she, with a frank boldness. “He has chatted and flirted with me, just as every one else presumes he has a right to do with a girl in a station below their own; but he has never been more impertinent in this way than any other young man of fashion.” “But there have been”--he was sorely puzzled for the word he wanted, and it was only as a resource, not out of choice, he said--“attentions?” “Of course, papa, what many would call in the cognate phrase, marked attentions; but girls who go into the world as I do no more mistake what these mean than would you yourself, papa, if passingly asked what was good for a sore-throat fancy that the inquirer intended to fee you.” “I see, Polly, I see,” muttered he, as the illustration came home to him. Still, after ruminating for some time, a change seemed to come over his thoughts, for he said,-- “But you might be wrong this time, Polly: it is by no means impossible that you might be wrong.”