So were the holes in them.

But their magnitude did not shake Pollyooly's resolve to darn them.
She had been at work for about three-quarters of an hour when there came a knock at the door.

She went to it in some trepidation, expecting to find a raging Butterwick on the threshold.

She opened it gingerly, and to her relief looked into the friendly face of Mr.James, the novelist.
On that friendly face sat the expression of weary resignation with which he was wont to intervene in the affairs of his great-hearted, but impulsive, friend.
He greeted Pollyooly warmly, and asked if Hilary Vance were in.
Pollyooly told him the artist was lunching at the Savage Club.
Mr.James hesitated; then walking down the passage into the studio, he said: "Well, I expect that you'll be able to tell me the latest news of the affair.

I've just got back from Scotland to find a letter from Mr.
Ruffin to say that Mr.Vance has at last found the lady of his dreams and is engaged to be married to a florist's assistant of the name of Flossie.