“Of course,” she assured him promptly, always secretly marveling at David’s ability to use words with which she was unfamiliar. “It sounds beautiful.”
“It means halfway between, I think,” he explained; “so I thought it was an appropriate word.”
“It is,” declared Polly, “a great deal better than just between. It makes it seem more important.”
David laughed, and then, spying the piano, admired Polly’s new instrument to her full satisfaction, and ended by sitting down and singing a little song which she called “another birthday present.”
Shortly before two o’clock the birthday guests began to arrive at Mrs. Jocelyn’s beautiful home. The two mothers, one in white and the other in gray, and the two girls, dressed exactly alike in soft white wool, with pink sashes and ribbons, received informally in the east drawing-room, and when the girls and boys were all there Mrs. Dudley started a game.
They were in the midst of the fun, when Polly, glancing at Ilga Barron, was troubled to see an ugly scowl. The children were in a circle, alternate girls and boys, secretly passing a ring from hand to hand, and it chanced that Ilga had a place between Otto Kriloff and Cornelius O’Shaughnessy.
“Oh, if she makes a fuss!” thought Polly, and straightway the charm of the game vanished.
Ilga’s face grew black and ominous. Suddenly, with a scornful “I guess I won’t play any more!” she dropped the hands she held, and, with head high, walked mincingly over to the window, and stood with her back to the others.
“What’s the matter?” broke from several mouths and showed in every face—every face but Polly’s. Polly knew, or thought she knew.
“We’ll keep right on,” she said in a soft, tense voice; and the play proceeded, yet not as before.