"Wait in the car, Courtland," was all that Mrs. Russell said. "I’ll be down directly."
"He’s a nice boy," she told Angelica, after he had gone. "I think a great deal of him. I’m sorry for him. He’s very bright and intelligent, but he hasn’t had any opportunities."
"He’s mighty fresh," said Angelica.
"You mean disrespectful? I know it; but it seems to me that in this country, you know—a republic—we should expect that sort of thing. We’re all more or less equals, I suppose, aren’t we?"
Angelica said yes; but she didn’t think so, and she knew that Mrs. Russell didn’t think so. A game of exploitation, simply but in a country where every one had the pleasing possibility of becoming one of the exploiters.
Angelica went back to Polly with the message.
"She says she’ll send back the car in an hour."
"Then I think I’ll get up and dress," said Polly. "We’ll run into the city for lunch. Do you know, I feel better! I think you’re doing me good."
She really believed so; it seemed to her that the fierce and careless vitality of this girl charged all the atmosphere, penetrated and invigorated even her jaded and sorrowful heart. It was not the sort of vitality that fatigues and irritates, like the ceaseless activities of a little child. Angelica was quiet, for the most part; she didn’t speak much, she sat quietly in her chair, with the sort of cool steadiness that one notices in cats. When you spoke to her, it required no effort for her to attend, to concentrate her thought on you; at once her dark face was alert, her ready mind in action.
With Polly—although she wasn’t aware of it—her manner was exactly what was needed. She was generally quite indifferent, thinking her own thoughts, absorbed in her own affairs; but she was instantly willing to perform any service, or to talk, or to listen.