“Then I pity poor Paul from the bottom of my heart,” was Polly’s unexpected reply.
“Paul doesn’t seem to think he is in need of any pity,” smiled Eleanor, as she thought of his joy the preceding evening as he escorted her from the Latimer’s apartment to the automobile.
“Well, then it is not the same sort of secret understanding. Now come out with it, Nolla, and tell me just how far you have complicated yourself with Paul in love, and with me in our business venture?”
“Not at all, Poll. That is what I wish to impress upon you—that I am no deeper in the love tangle than you are with Tom.”
“All right, then, Nolla. Now I’ll confess, if you promise me to do likewise. Is it a bargain?”
“If you wish. But let me say beforehand, I have no more to confess than you know of already.”
“It’s a pact! Shake, Nolla,” exclaimed Polly, holding out her hand.
Of course Eleanor was more than amazed at such a to-do over what she considered a natural outcome of human attraction for Polly, and she shook the hand extended to seal the compact.
“There now! I’ll confess first. Last night, when I found poor Tom in such dire condition and wanting to die at once, I told his mother I would comfort him, somewhat, by wishing him a merry Christmas and showing him my business card. You know, the ones we just got back from the engravers late Christmas Eve.
“Well, I found him in such a pitiable way that I was sorry the moment I handed him my card. He took it so differently from what I had expected. When he raved about dying and nothing to live for, I was at my wit’s end. Finally, just after the basin in which he was boiling his feet slipped from under him, and sat him down unkindly upon the floor, I was moved to encourage him if he would but cheer up and think of living a little longer.