“He is the kind of duck that costs!” was Winifred’s quiet rejoinder. She gave a little sigh that had something of impatience in it. “Chrissie will have a good time this year, at any rate.”
Polly drew the last thread of her darning together with a little jerk, and spread the rug on the floor.
“I wish I knew something more about this man she is going to marry! Just fancy, Winnie, we none of us have seen him yet, and Chrissie is to be his wife in a few months. It doesn’t seem quite right somehow.”
Winifred’s eyebrows went up a little.
“I don’t think it matters very much our not having seen him. All that does matter is, that he is Sir Mark Wentworth, and that Chrissie will be very rich and very happy.”
Polly stood up and surveyed her workmanship.
She was not the best darner in the world, and the rug had rather a drawn-up look where the yawning rent had been, nevertheless Polly gazed at it complacently—it was a feat to have accomplished it at all. Then she shook off the bits of thread from her gown and went to work to finish up her corner.
It aggravated her to see Winifred sitting there so calmly, and the row of little gleaming silver things irritated her still more.
Polly had her own share of such ornaments. A photograph frame that held her mother’s picture, a queer small spoon some one had given her on her last birthday, a piece of old Dutch silver, fashioned to hold holy water and a broad silver belt buckle, all of which were carefully displayed on her little shelf, but all of which were just as black and tarnished as Winifred’s possessions were brilliant and clean.
She had her row of family portraits, too, which were very dear to her. She was wicked enough to confess to herself she was far fonder of Winifred’s picture than she was of Winifred herself.