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bright red-cheeked wax apples and a round-shaped clock.
But these were the mere background to the really pleasant thing in the
spectacle, which was quite the plumpest woman Mr. Polly had ever seen,
seated in an armchair in the midst of all these bottles and glasses
and glittering things, peacefully and tranquilly, and without the
slightest loss of dignity, asleep. Many people would have called her
a fat woman, but Mr. Polly's innate sense of epithet told him from the
outset that plump was the word. She had shapely brows and a straight,
well-shaped nose, kind lines and contentment about her mouth, and
beneath it the jolly chins clustered like chubby little cherubim about
the feet of an Assumptioning-Madonna. Her plumpness was firm and pink
and wholesome, and her hands, dimpled at every joint, were clasped in
front of her; she seemed as it were to embrace herself with infinite
confidence and kindliness as one who knew herself good in substance,
good in essence, and would show her gratitude to God by that ready
acceptance of all that he had given her. Her head was a little on one
side, not much, but just enough to speak of trustfulness, and rob her
of the stiff effect of self-reliance. And she slept.
"My sort," said Mr. Polly, and opened the door very softly, divided
between the desire to enter and come nearer and an instinctive
indisposition to break slumbers so manifestly sweet and satisfying.
She awoke with a start, and it amazed Mr. Polly to see swift terror
flash into her eyes. Instantly it had gone again.
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