“Yes, of course; who did you think I meant?” asked Polly, sopping up the water before it damaged her piano.
“Never mind; I thought you might be having a quiet little flirtation with somebody. I feel responsible, you know, because I told your mother I'd look after you. The flowers are all right. My head aches so, I hardly know what I'm doing this morning.”
Fanny spoke fast, and laughed uncomfortably, as she went back to the sofa, wondering if Polly had told her a lie. Polly seemed to guess at her thoughts as she saw the card, and turning toward her, she held it up, saying, with a conscious look in her eyes, “You thought Mr. Sydney sent them? Well, you are mistaken, and the next time you want to know anything, please ask straight out. I like it better than talking at cross purposes.”
“Now, my dear, don't be angry; I was only teasing you in fun. Tom took it into his foolish head that something was going on, and I felt a natural interest, you know.”
“Tom! What does he know or care about my affairs?” demanded Polly.
“He met you two in the street pretty often, and being in a sentimental mood himself, got up a romance for you and Sydney.”
“I'm much obliged to him for his interest, but it's quite wasted, thank you.”
Fan's next proceeding gave her friend another surprise, for, being rather ashamed of herself, very much relieved, and quite at a loss what to say, she took refuge in an hysterical fit of tears, which changed Polly's anger into tenderness at once.
“Is that the trouble she has been hiding all winter? Poor dear, I wish I 'd known it sooner,” thought Polly, as she tried to soothe her with comfortable pats, sniffs of cologne and sympathizing remarks upon the subject of headache, carefully ignoring that other feminine affliction, the heartache.
“There, I feel better. I've been needing a good cry for some time, and now I shall be all right. Never mind it, Polly, I'm nervous and tired; I 've danced too much lately, and dyspepsia makes me blue;” and Fanny wiped her eyes and laughed.