'Neither can I. That would n't be my way.'
'No; Miss Polly would let concealment prey on her damask cheeks and still smile on in the novel fashion, or turn sister of charity and nurse the heartless lover through small-pox, or some other contagious disease, and die seraphically, leaving him to the agonies of remorse and tardy love.'
Polly gave Sydney an indignant look as he said that in a slow satirical way that nettled her very much, for she hated to be thought sentimental.
'That 's not my way either,' she said decidedly. 'I 'd try to outlive it, and if I could n't, I 'd try to be the better for it. Disappointment need n't make a woman a fool.'
'Nor an old maid, if she 's pretty and good. Remember that, and don't visit the sins of one blockhead on all the rest of mankind,' said Tom, laughing at her earnestness.
'I don't think there is the slightest possibility of Miss Polly's being either,' added Sydney with a look which made it evident that concealment had not seriously damaged Polly's damask cheek as yet.
'There 's Clara Bird. I have n't seen her but once since she was married. How pretty she looks!' and Polly retired behind the big glass again, thinking the chat was becoming rather personal.
'Now, there 's a girl who tried a different cure for unrequited affection from any you mention. People say she was fond of Belle's brother. He did n't reciprocate but went off to India to spoil his constitution, so Clara married a man twenty years older than she is and consoles herself by being the best-dressed woman in the city.'
'That accounts for it,' said Polly, when Tom's long whisper ended.
'For what?'
'The tired look in her eyes.'
'I don't see it,' said Tom, after a survey through the glass.
'Did n't expect you would.'
'I see what you mean. A good many women have it nowadays,' said Sydney over Polly's shoulder.
'What's she tired of? The old gentleman?' asked Tom.
'And herself,' added Polly.
'You 've been reading French novels, I know you have. That 's just the way the heroines go on,' cried Tom.
'I have n't read one, but it 's evident you have, young man, and you 'd better stop.'
'I don't care for 'em; only do it to keep up my French. But how came you to be so wise, ma'am?'
'Observation, sir. I like to watch faces, and I seldom see a grown-up one that looks perfectly happy.'
'True for you, Polly; no more you do, now I think of it. I don't know but one that always looks so, and there it is.'
'Where?' asked Polly, with interest.
'Look straight before you and you 'll see it.'
Polly did look, but all she saw was her own face in the little mirror of the fan which Tom held up and peeped over with a laugh in his eyes.
'Do I look happy? I 'm glad of that,' And Polly surveyed herself with care.
Both young men thought it was girlish vanity and smiled at its naive display, but Polly was looking for something deeper than beauty and was glad not to find it.
'Rather a pleasant little prospect, hey, Polly?'
'My bonnet is straight, and that 's all I care about. Did you ever see a picture of Beau Brummel?' asked Polly quickly.
'No.'
'Well, there he is, modernized.' And turning the fan, she showed him himself.
'Any more portraits in your gallery?' asked Sydney, as if he liked to share all the nonsense going.
'One more.'
'What do you call it?'
'The portrait of a gentleman.' And the little glass reflected a gratified face for the space of two seconds.
'Thank you. I 'm glad I don't disgrace my name,' said Sydney, looking down into the merry blue eyes that thanked him silently for many of the small kindnesses that women never can forget.
'Very good, Polly, you are getting on fast,' whispered Tom, patting his yellow kids approvingly.
'Be quiet! Dear me, how warm it is!' And Polly gave him a frown that delighted his soul.
'Come out and have an ice, we shall have time.'
'Fan is so absorbed, I could n't think of disturbing her,' said Polly, fancying that her friend was enjoying the evening as much as she was a great mistake, by the way, for Fan was acting for effect, and though she longed to turn and join them, would n't do it, unless a certain person showed signs of missing her. He did n't, and Fanny chatted on, raging inwardly over her disappointment, and wondering how Polly could be so gay and selfish.
It was delicious to see the little airs Polly put on, for she felt as if she were somebody else, and acting a part. She leaned back, as if quite oppressed by the heat, permitted Sydney to fan her, and paid him for the service by giving him a flower from her bouquet, proceedings which amused Tom immensely, even while it piqued him a little to be treated like an old friend who did n't count.
