"Blanche Puddicombe was riding with him. He had his roadster. I don't see what he takes her around so much for. She isn't a bit pretty."
"Probably she is agreeable." Miss Sterling laid down the blanket she had folded and crossed the room.
"I don't see how she can be with such a mother," Polly went on. "She fusses herself up a good deal the same way. She hasn't a mite of taste. I saw her downtown shopping the other day with a sport skirt, very wide scarlet stripes, and a dress hat trimmed with a single pink rose—the most delicate pink—and a light blue feather! Oh, yes, and a crepe-de-chine waist of pale green!"
An amused chuckle sounded from the window, where Miss Sterling was straightening the curtains.
"You ought to have seen her! Her hair is black as—my shoe, and she wears it waved right down over her ears—you wouldn't know she had any ears! Queer, Mr. Randolph should want her riding round with him so much! You'd think he would have more sense, wouldn't you?"
"She has money—and youth!" was the emphasized reply, in a cold, hard tone. "Money and youth make everything harmonize—even sport skirts and dress hats!"
"She doesn't begin to look as young as you do. She looks more than thirty, and you don't!"
"Polly Dudley!"
"Father says so, anyway!"
"I thank your father for the nattering compliment; but I think he must be needing glasses."