"Oh, they're not old—all of them!" broke in Polly. "Miss Nita isn't old!—or Miss Crilly!—or—"
"You need not enumerate! I know how old they are, and I know how old they say they are! To think of your coaxing them into such disgraceful escapades as you have! Those gray-haired women dancing out in a pasture lot! Oh, you needn't look so surprised! I know what you're up to, if I do stay home here! You were saucy on that occasion, and bold, too! Calling to passing automobilists to come and dance with you! It was scandalous!"
"Why, Miss Sniffen,"—Polly's tone was gently explanatory,—"you can't have heard it straight! We didn't do a single thing out of the way! And I didn't call anybody! Mr. Randolph and Miss Puddicombe drove along, and Mr. Randolph said it looked too tempting, and wanted to know if they couldn't come and dance. That was all!"
The superintendent primmed her lips. "We won't discuss it any further. All I wish to say is that hereafter you may confine your calls to Wednesday afternoon, when we receive visitors."
Polly stood for an instant, dumb with surprise and dismay; then she took a step forward.
"Good-bye, Miss Sniffen!" she said in a low, tense voice, and passed swiftly out into the sunshine.
She walked along, regardless of anything besides her own tumultuous thoughts, until, as she was turning in at her home entrance, she heard the old familiar call, "Pollee, Pollee, Pollee-e-e!"
David was only a few yards ahead, and she waited.
"What is it?" he asked as he came up.
The ghost of a smile flickered on Polly's face.