She laughed softly. "That is to say you decline—and an old friend! I did not think you so cruel."
He flushed. "No, I should feel quite honored," he subjoined quickly. "Ruth, is there an evening you and Madame Maseurier can agree for her to come to us?"
I really wanted father to see her, so I accepted the opportunity readily, for I had hardly dared propose it to Dan, and she agreed with charming suavity.
"You can hardly make Polly Morrison out of her," I remarked as we were walking home.
"She has been polished up by society, we must admit, and she is what I call a handsome woman. Those tall women always do have such a queenly look. It pays a man to get them fine clothes."
And I was barely medium.
I did my best to have a pretty tea table. Dan said not to ask any one else. We had made some vines grow over our porch, and I had a row of flowers on each side of the walk, like my mother's dooryard. Polly admired it cordially and told us of the southern flowers and vines that grew so riotously in their sweetness and bloom. She sat and talked to father until they were summoned to tea, and we had a rather merry meal. She thought our prospect so fine, the great sweep of prairie on one side, the lake on the other. They laughed about old Chicago, though Polly said it had not made rapid strides only in a business way.
Her eyes gave one the queerest feeling, as if they really absorbed you, drained you of some power, and yet you were lured to meet them again and again.
Dan proposed to take her home in the buggy.
"Oh, no, let us walk," she returned. "I am afraid of these uneven narrow lanes at night, when you can't see the pitfalls."