“I'm talking about Syd.”
“Well, I'm not.”
“You'd better try for him.”
“I'll think of it.”
“Oh, Polly, Polly, what are you coming to?”
“A tumble into the street, apparently,” answered Polly as she slipped a little on the step, and Tom stopped in the middle of his laugh to pilot her safely into the carriage, where Fanny was already seated.
“Here's richness!” said Polly to herself as she rolled away, feeling as Cinderella probably did when the pumpkin-coach bore her to the first ball, only Polly had two princes to think about, and poor Cinderella, on that occasion, had not even one. Fanny did n't seem inclined to talk much, and Tom would go on in such a ridiculous manner that Polly told him she would n't listen and began to hum bits of the opera. But she heard every word, nevertheless, and resolved to pay him for his impertinence as soon as possible by showing him what he had lost.
Their seats were in the balcony, and hardly were they settled, when, by one of those remarkable coincidences which are continually occurring in our youth, Mr. Sydney and Fanny's old friend Frank Moore took their places just behind them.
“Oh, you villain! You did it on purpose,” whispered Polly as she turned from greeting their neighbors and saw a droll look on Tom's face.
“I give you my word I did n't. It's the law of attraction, don't you see?”