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 Ermyntrude rose with an air of great dignity: "I don't unnerstand your manner, 'Ilary," she said with stern coldness. "But since you harske me, I'll leave you to think it hover. But you think it hover right. Don't you go tryin' to plye no tricks on me, 'Ilary, for the lor is the lor. Good hafternoon."

She left the room with extraordinary dignity, but rather spoiled a fine exit by banging the door after her. Hilary Vance sank into a creaking chair, buried his face in his hands, and groaned, "Good heavens, Pollyooly, what have I done?"

"I don't know, sir," said Pollyooly politely. "Don't you want to marry her?"

"Marry that little cat? No!" bellowed Hilary Vance, spurred by the suggestion to his pristine vigor.

Pollyooly reflected carefully for a minute or two; then she said with the air of a sage: "Then I don't think you'd better, sir. I don't think she'd make a comfortable wife."

"Comfortable wife! She'd blight me! She'd blast every inspiration! That girl has the nature of a hyena! I know it—I'm sure of it!" bellowed Hilary Vance with immense conviction.