“Cat’s eyes,” Winnie called them, but they had nothing feline, or cunning, or shifty in their expression. They were too clear, too joyous, too full of life and the gladness of life, to have any of the subtlety, the blind sort of beauty one sees in a cat.
From the conservatory Polly had a good view of all that came and went on the stairs, and an hour or so after her mother, looking wan and shadowy but still attractive, followed by Chrissie, a vision of smartness and beauty, had passed down the stairs, Polly became aware that Jane, the parlormaid, was having an altercation with somebody at the front door.
Polly’s pulses beat a little nervously. She was beginning to know the significance of troublesome callers by degrees, and she turned with a start as Jane, evidently flushed and beaten, came running up the stairs.
“There’s a gentleman, Miss Polly, what’s asking for master or mistress, and he won’t be said nay. I have told him they ain’t neither of them at home, but he won’t believe me, and he won’t go away.”
Polly hesitated a moment. Her heart was beating very quickly, she did not know why, and she felt a little frightened. But she saw something had to be done. She drew off her gloves and her big apron.
“Show the gentleman into the dining room. I will come and speak to him, Jane.”
Giving her gown a tweak, and her hair two or three futile pats, Polly went slowly down the stairs.
She was not sure if she were doing right or wrong, but most certainly, if the man would not go away at Jane’s desire, then he must go away at her command.
Jane met her at the foot of the stairs.
“He’s in the dining room, miss,” she said, still hot and angry.