“What?” responded Polly.
“In a moment.”
The music stopped as the two neared an outside door. Russell led his partner to a small balcony, and they sat down.
“It is what he said to me a few weeks ago,” he began at once, “and to this hour I cannot think what could have called it out. We met on the street, and he walked up to me and said in the most abrupt way, ‘Ely, I’d rather you would steal money out of my pocket than to do as you are doing!’—I replied, ‘What have I done?’—‘Done!’ he ejaculated, and walked off scowling. I’d give a good deal to know what he meant.”
“David is peculiar,” sighed Polly.
“All of that,” he returned. “If you’ll excuse my saying it—I don’t want to meddle or give advice where it isn’t desired—I have told myself more than once, ‘If Polly Dudley marries David Collins I am afraid she will rue it.’ From my outlook he is not a man calculated to make any woman happy, least of all one of your make-up. Forgive my candor.” For the girl was silent.
A dark figure passed below the balcony, and as the light of a lantern struck across his face they discerned the features of David.
“‘Speak of angels...’” quoted Russell with a soft laugh. “You are not offended?”
“You are too old a friend to give offense in that way,” said Polly. “I thank you.”
“You needn’t. Are you engaged for the next dance?”