"It _would_ be," said Mr. Polly softly. "I beg your pardon?" said Annie. "I said _I_ didn't mind. Up here?" "I daresay there'll be a table," said Annie, and followed him up to a room whose conscientious disorder was intensely reminiscent of Miriam. "Nothing like turning everything upside down when you're cleaning," said Mr. Polly cheerfully. "It's my sister's way," said Annie impartially. "She's gone out for a bit of air, but I daresay she'll be back soon to finish. It's a nice light room when it's tidy. Can I put you a table over there?" "Let _me_," said Mr. Polly, and assisted. He sat down by the open window and drummed on the table and meditated on his next step while Annie vanished to get his tea. After all, things didn't seem so bad with Miriam. He tried over several gambits in imagination. "Unusual name," he said as Annie laid a cloth before him. Annie looked interrogation. "Polly. Polly & Larkins. Real, I suppose?" "Polly's my sister's name. She married a Mr. Polly." "Widow I presume?" said Mr. Polly. "Yes. This five years--come October." "Lord!" said Mr. Polly in unfeigned surprise. "Found drowned he was. There was a lot of talk in the place." "Never heard of it," said Mr. Polly. "I'm a stranger--rather." "In the Medway near Maidstone. He must have been in the water for days. Wouldn't have known him, my sister wouldn't, if it hadn't been for the name sewn in his clothes. All whitey and eat away he was." "Bless my heart! Must have been rather a shock for her!" "It _was_ a shock," said Annie, and added darkly: "But sometimes a shock's better than a long agony." "No doubt," said Mr. Polly. He gazed with a rapt expression at the preparations before him. "So I'm drowned," something was saying inside him. "Life insured?" he asked. "We started the tea rooms with it," said Annie. Why, if things were like this, had remorse and anxiety for Miriam been implanted in his soul? No shadow of an answer appeared. "Marriage is a lottery," said Mr. Polly. "_She_ found it so," said Annie. "Would you like some jam?" "I'd like an egg," said Mr. Polly. "I'll have two. I've got a sort of feeling--. As though I wanted keeping up.... Wasn't particularly good sort, this Mr. Polly?" "He was a _wearing_ husband," said Annie. "I've often pitied my sister. He was one of that sort--" "Dissolute?" suggested Mr. Polly faintly. "No," said Annie judiciously; "not exactly dissolute. Feeble's more the word. Weak, 'E was. Weak as water. 'Ow long do you like your eggs boiled?" "Four minutes exactly," said Mr. Polly. "One gets talking," said Annie. "One does," said Mr.-Polly, and she left him to his thoughts.