Polly looked her pleasure.
“And I’ve been longing to get acquainted with you,” she confessed. “It was partly on account of your name. That was mamma’s name too,—she was Phebe Illingworth.”
“Why, isn’t that fine!” exclaimed Patricia. “I’m going straight to look in papa’s Genealogy, just as soon as I get home, and see if we’re related! Wouldn’t it be grand if we are?”
She squeezed Polly rapturously.
Then the car stopped at Dr. Dudley’s door.
“My grandfather’s name was Rufus Illingworth,” added Polly to her thanks. “Oh, I do hope we are cousins!” she smiled. “I’ve been wishing and wishing for ever so long that I had a cousin, and it will be lovelicious if you should turn out to be one.”
With earnest good-byes the new friends separated, and from the shelter of the piazza Polly answered the salute of the little hand at the limousine window as long as she could see it.
There was no holding back this time. The story of the day, or the portion of it occupied by Patricia Illingworth, was related in detail, both in Mrs. Dudley’s room before tea and at the table afterwards, as the Doctor was kept busy at the hospital until six o’clock.
They were through with the meal, and Polly was helping her mother carry the dishes into the kitchen, when the telephone called the physician from the room. In a moment he was back.
“Your new friend is holding the wire for you,” he told Polly. And she ran, her heart happy and fearful all at once.