"What do you think of this performance?" asked Tom, wheeling round to Polly, who still sat by Mrs. Shaw, in the shadow of the bed-curtains.
"I like it very much," she said, in such a hearty tone, that Tom could not doubt the genuineness of her pleasure.
"Glad of that. Hope you'll be as well pleased with another engagement that's coming out before long"; and with an odd laugh, Tom carried Sydney off to his den, leaving the girls to telegraph to one another the awful message,—
"It is Maria Bailey."
How she managed to get through that evening, Polly never knew, yet it was not a long one, for at eight o'clock she slipped out of the room, meaning to run home alone, and not compel any one to serve as escort. But she did not succeed, for as she stood warming her rubbers at the dining-room fire, wondering pensively as she did so if Maria Bailey had small feet, and if Tom ever put her rubbers on for her, the little overshoes were taken out of her hands, and Tom's voice said, reproachfully,—
"Did you really mean to run away, and not let me go home with you?"
"I'm not afraid; I didn't want to take you away," began Polly, secretly hoping that she didn't look too pleased.
"But I like to be taken away. Why, it's a whole year since I went home with you; do you remember that?" said Tom, flapping the rubbers about without any signs of haste.
"Does it seem long?"
"Everlasting!"
