mance it portrayed, came and went so eloquently, that it was impossible to help reading them. Polly did not know that this was why he leaned down so often to speak to her, with an expression which she did not understand, but liked very much, nevertheless.
"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 wouldn'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 afflicting 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
