“As to sort,” returned Framleigh, “I don’t know the species. A sort of girl I never saw before. But, if you wait, you may judge for yourself. She will soon be out there in the garden again. She has been darting in and out of the house for the last twenty minutes.” “Out of the house?” said Popham, eagerly, “Do you mean the house opposite?” “Yes.” “By Jupiter!” employing his usual mild expletive, “look here, old fellow, had she a white dress on, and geranium-colored bows, and――” “Yes,” said Framleigh. “And she is rather tall for such a girl; and her hair is cut, on her round white forehead, Sir Peter Lely fashion (they call it banging, I believe), and she gives you the impression, at first, of being all eyes, great dark eyes, with――” “Long, curly, black lashes,” interpolated Popham, with enthusiasm. “By Jupiter! I thought so! It’s pretty Polly P.” He was so evidently excited that Framleigh looked up with a touch of interest, though he was scarcely a man of enthusiasm himself. “Pretty Polly P.!” he repeated. “Rather familiar mode of speech, isn’t it? Who is pretty Polly P.?” Popham, a good-natured, sensitive little fellow, actually colored. “Well,” he admitted, somewhat confusedly, “I dare say it does sound rather odd, to people who don’t know her; but I can assure you, Framleigh, though it is the name all our fellows seem to give her with one accord, I am sure there is not one of them who means it to appear disrespectful, or――or even cheeky,” resorting, in desperation, to slang. “She is not the sort of a girl a fellow would ever be disrespectful to, even though she is such a girl――so jolly and innocent. For my part, you know, I’d face a good deal, and give up a good deal any day, for pretty Polly P.; and I’m only one of a many.” Framleigh half smiled, and then looked out of the window again, in the direction of the house opposite. “Daresay,” he commented, placidly. “And very laudably, too. But you have not told me what the letter P. is intended to signify. ‘Pretty Polly P.’ is agreeable and alliterative, but indefinite. It might mean Pretty Polly Popham.” “I wish it did, by Jupiter!” cordially, and with more color; “but it does not. It means Pemberton?” “Pemberton!” echoed Framleigh, with an intonation almost savoring of disgust. “You don’t mean to say she is that Irish fellow’s daughter?” “She is his niece,” was the answer, “and that amounts to the same thing, in her case. She has lived with old Pemberton ever since she was four years old, and she is as fond of him as if he was a woman, and her mother; and he is as fond of her as if she was his daughter; but he couldn’t help that. Every one is fond of her.” “Ah!” said Framleigh. “I see. As you say, ‘She is the sort of girl.’” “There she is, again!” exclaimed Popham, suddenly.