She brushed herself thoroughly, however, then tied herself up in a big cooking apron, and set to work, and in a little while the boom of the gong informed the occupants of the drawing room that dinner was served.
Polly was already in the dining room when her mother, leaning on Hubert Kestridge’s arm, came down the stairs, followed by Winifred’s pretty figure, and they both looked so sweet and fresh that Polly awakened to the burning of her scorched hands and face, and the shabbiness of her gown with a pang of something like shame.
Winifred gazed at her sister complacently.
Sometimes, she told herself softly, there was some luck in the world.
Never had she seen Polly look so awful in all her life before.
Hubert Kestridge had clasped both of Polly’s hot, small hands in his with a heartiness that was almost eager.
“I thought you were never coming to welcome me,” he said, with a tinge of reproach in his pleasant, Irish-touched voice.
Polly whisked her hands away.
“You think very silly things. You always did!” she observed; and she went down to the lower end of the table, and took her father’s seat, with a frown on her pretty brow.
Mrs. Pennington looked troubled as she saw how hot and tired the girl was, and the shadow on her face deepened as the omelet was brought in and handed round.