“It has n't come to that yet,” muttered Tom, as he lay down again with a rebellious air.
Maud's return put an end to these confidences, though Tom excited her curiosity by asking the mysterious question, “I say, Fan, is Polly up to that sort of thing?”
“No, she thinks it's awful. When she gets pale and dragged out she will probably change her mind.”
“I doubt it,” said Tom.
“Polly says it is n't proper to talk secrets before people who ain't in 'em,” observed Maud, with dignity.
“Do, for mercy sake, stop talking about Polly, I'm sick to death of it,” cried Fanny, snappishly.
“Hullo!” and Tom sat up to take a survey. “I thought you were bosom friends, and as spoony as ever.”
“Well, I am fond of Polly, but I get tired of hearing Maud sing her praises everlastingly. Now don't go and repeat that, chatterbox.”
“My goodness, is n't she cross?” whispered Maud to Tom.
“As two sticks; let her be. There's the bell; see who it is, Pug,” answered Tom, as a tingle broke the silence of the house.