It was all very uncomfortable and confusing

Mrs. Glendinning was hungry for the luxury of speech — not even to Louisa Urquhart had she broken silence, she wept; and that, for the sake of Louisa’s children — and she persisted in laying her heart bare. And here certain vague suspicions that had crossed Polly’s mind on the night of the impromptu ball — they were gone again, in an instant, quick as thistledown on the breeze — these suddenly returned, life-size and weighty; and the name that was spoken came as no surprise to her. Yes, it was Mr. Henry Ocock to whom poor Agnes was attached. There had been a mutual avowal of affection, sobbed the latter; they met as often as circumstances permitted. Polly was thunder-struck: knowing Agnes as she did, she herself could not believe any harm of her; but she shuddered at the thought of what other people — Richard, for instance — would say, did they get wind of it. She implored her friend to caution. She ought never, never to see Mr. Ocock. Why did she not go away to Melbourne for a time? And why had he come to Ballarat?
“To be near me, dearest, to help me if I should need him.— Oh, you can’t think what a comfort it is, Polly, to feel that he IS here — so good, and strong, and clever!— Yes, I know what you mean . . . but this is quite, quite different. Henry does not expect me to be clever, too — does not want me to be. He prefers me as I am. He dislikes clever women .. . would never marry one. And we SHALL marry, darling, some day — when . . .”
Henry Ocock! Polly tried to focus everything she knew of him, all her fleeting impressions, in one picture — and failed. He had made himself very agreeable, the single time she had met him; but. . . . There was Richard’s opinion of him: Richard did not like him or trust him; he thought him unscrupulous in business, cold and self-seeking. Poor, poor little Agnes! That such a misfortune should befall just her! Stranger still that she, Polly, should be mixed up in it.
She had, of course, always known from books that such things did happen; but then they seemed quite different, and very far away. Her thoughts at this crisis were undeniably woolly; but the gist of them was, that life and books had nothing in common. For in stories the woman who forgot herself was always a bad woman; whereas not the harshest critic could call poor Agnes bad. Indeed, Polly felt that even if some one proved to her that her friend had actually done wrong, she would not on that account be able to stop caring for her, or feeling sorry for her. It was all very uncomfortable and confusing.
While these thoughts came and went, she half sat, half knelt, a pair of scissors in her hand.