Polly was in nowise unwilling. It was as natural to her to adorn her dainty self, as to a wren to preen and perk. Molly, being no professed beauty, made shorter work of her toilette. Her white muslin gown was of the simplest, and her short black hair was all but hidden under a turban of white silk. But every strand of Polly's abundant mane needed attention, though crowned by a fantastic hat with lofty white feathers; and her embroidered white gown, made with its waist close under the arm-pits, left throat and snowy shoulders bare. The skirt was clinging and scanty; and a large white muff completed her ballroom equipment, except that a light scarf was wound round the said shoulders, and that the dainty feet bore satin slippers.
Polly looked exquisitely pretty. Her skin was like ivory; the blush-rose tinting was just where it ought to have been; and the smile in her velvet eyes was a perfect sunbeam.
She could never enter a crowded room without becoming at once a centre for all glances. Molly, close behind, was neglected by comparison, and was content to have it so, not expecting admiration.
The one thing upon which her heart was set was the promised sight of Mr. Walter Scott. His real work in life, the writing of the Waverley Novels, had not then been even begun; but he was well known as the author of divers historical ballads, which had taken the fashionable world by storm.
Molly pictured him to herself as a quite ineffable individual, with fathomless dark eyes and Rowing locks of ebony, such as should befit an immortal poet. She sat upon her chair, quiet, neglected, yet perfectly happy at the thought of the glorious sight which was soon to dawn upon her vision. Mrs. Bryce's finger-tips roused her from a dream.
"Wake up, Molly. Are you asleep? Here he comes."
Molly looked around in eager quest. But she saw no wondrous form to correspond to the image in her mind. A lame man, rather robust in make, certainly not "elegant," with brown hair, flaxen eyebrows, a long upper lip, and a genial expression,—no, that was no embodiment of Molly's ideal. His eyes were light grey in colour, not dark and wild, as a poet's should have been. Yet the gleams of arch brightness which lighted up his face, as he talked, went a long way towards redeeming it from homeliness.
Then Molly was called up to be presented to the poet.
He said a few kind words to the young girl—she could not afterwards remember what they were. In later years she would be glad always to know that she had spoken with him; but at the moment her mind was full of its sudden disillusionment.