"Don't shut your eyes, Polly. They are so full of mischief to-night, I like to see them," said Tom, after idly wondering for a minute if she knew how long and curly her lashes were.
"I don't wish to look affected, but the music tells the story so much better than the acting that I don't care to look on half the time," answered Polly, hoping Tom would n't see the tears she had so cleverly suppressed.
"Now I like the acting best. The music is all very fine, I know, but it does seem so absurd for people to go round telling tremendous secrets at the top of their voices. I can't get used to it.""That 's because you 've more common-sense than romance. I don't mind the absurdity, and quite long to go and comfort that poor girl with the broken heart," said Polly with a sigh as the curtain fell on a most affecting tableau.
"What's-his-name is a great jack not to see that she adores him. In real life we fellows ain't such bats as all that," observed Tom, who had decided opinions on many subjects that he knew very little about, and expressed them with great candor.
A curious smile passed over Polly's face and she put up her glass to hide her eyes, as she said:­"I think you are bats sometimes, but women are taught to wear masks, and that accounts for it, I suppose.""I don't agree. There 's precious little masking nowadays; wish there was a little more sometimes," added Tom, thinking of several blooming damsels whose beseeching eyes had begged him not to leave them to wither on the parent stem.
"I hope not, but I guess there 's a good deal more than any one would suspect.""What can you know about broken hearts and blighted beings?" asked Sydney, smiling at the girl's pensive tone.
Polly glanced up at him and her face dimpled and shone again, as she answered, laughing:­"Not much; my time is to come."
"I can't imagine you walking about the world with your back hair down, bewailing a hard-hearted lover," said Tom.
"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.
