Of course he had always known that Polly O’Neill would never be a successful actress; she was far too erratic, too emotional. If only she had been sensible for once and listened to him that day in the woods long ago! Suddenly Billy squared his broad shoulders and closed his firm young lips. For, separating herself from every one else, Polly was actually marching directly toward him, and she had ever an uncanny fashion of guessing what was going on in other people’s heads.
Underneath his country tan Billy Webster blushed furiously and honestly.
“You think I was a rank failure, don’t you?” Polly demanded at once.
Still speechless, the young man nodded his head.
“You don’t believe I ever will do much better?” Again Billy nodded agreement.
“And that I had much better have stayed at home in Woodford and learned to cook and sew and—and—well, some day try to be somebody’s wife?” the girl ended a little breathlessly.
This time Billy Webster did not mince matters. “I most assuredly do,” he answered with praiseworthy bluntness.
Now for the first time since her fiasco as Belinda, Polly’s eyes flashed with something of their old fire. And there in the presence of the company, though unheeded by them, she stamped her foot just as she always had as a naughty child.
“I will succeed, Billy Webster, I will, I will! I don’t care how many failures I may make in learning! And just because I want to be a good actress is no reason why I can’t marry some day, if there is any man in the world who could both love and understand me and who would not wish to make me over according to his own particular pattern.” Then Polly smiled. “Thank you a thousand times, though, Billy, for you are the solitary person who has done me any good tonight. It is quite like old times, isn’t it, for us to start quarreling as soon as we meet. But, farewell, I must go home now and to bed.” Polly held out her hand. “You are an obstinate soul, Billy, but I can’t help admiring you for the steadfast way in which you disapprove of me.”