“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 didn’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.
“Didn’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 haven’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.”