"Oh, guardy! Guardy! Guardy!" she cried. "I knew you'd come! I knew it!"
It was Polly's voice. It hadn't changed. Was the nymph Polly? She was running with both hands outstretched. He caught them in his own as she came up to him, and stared into her face almost unbelievingly. Polly! This wasn't Polly! Polly's photographs were of a very pretty girl—this girl was glorious! She stirred the pulses. Damn it, she made the blood leap!
She hung back now a little shyly, the colour coming and going in her face.
He laughed. He meant it to be a laugh of one entirely in command both of himself and the situation; but it sounded in his ears as a laugh forced, unnatural, a poor effort to cover a suddenly routed composure.
"And is this all the welcome I get?" he demanded. He drew her closer to him. Gad, why not take his rights? She was worth it!
She held up her cheek demurely.
"I—I wasn't quite sure," she said coyly. "One's deportment with one's guardian wasn't in the school curriculum, you know—guardy!"
"Then I should have been more particular in my selection of the school," he said. It was strange, unaccountable! His voice seemed to rasp. He kissed her—then held her off at arm's-length. Polly! This bewitching creature was Polly! How the colour came and fled; and something glistened in the great, dark eyes—like the dew glistening in the morning sunlight.
"Oh, guardy!" she murmured. "It's so good to see you!"
"You waited up for me, Polly?" he asked.