Harry caught her hand and smiled down at her in surrender.
A ring at the door bell and the entrance of the maid caused Pauline to flutter up the stairs. They were preparing to attend the Courtelyou's reception that evening to the great Baskinelli, whose musical achievements had been equaled only by his social successes during this, his first New York season.
"Anyway," she twinkled from the top of the stairs, "you needn't be frightened for tonight. Nothing so meek and mild as a pianist can hurt you."
Harry tossed up his hands in mimic despair and started back to the library.
"Yes, I know she is always at home to you, Miss Hamlin," the maid was saying at the door.
"What a privileged person I am," laughed Lucille Hamlin.
She was Pauline's chum-in-chief, a dark, still tempered girl, in perfect contrast to the adventurous Polly. She greeted Harry with the easy grace of old acquaintanceship.
"Still nursing the precious broken heart?" she queried.
"For the love of Michael, me and humanity," he pleaded, "can't you do something? She won't listen to me. I'm honestly, deucedly worried, Lucille."
"You know very well that nobody could ever do anything with Polly. She always had to have her own way—and that's why you love her, though you don't know it, Harry. Shall I run upstairs, Margaret?" she added, turning to the maid.