Polly glanced down at her costume with more satisfaction than she had found in surveying her face. It was not in the least shabby, but a very charming dress which her mother had sent as a part of her Christmas box. The dress was of dark red crepe de Chine with a velvet girdle and collar of the same shade. And although under ordinary circumstances it might have been becoming, today Polly was not wrong in believing that she was not looking even her poor best. She was tired and nervous. Of course it did not matter so very much what Mr. Hunt might think of the story she had to tell him, but later on there would be many other persons whom she would have to persuade to accept her point of view. And somehow she felt that if she failed to convince her first listener she must fail with the others.
Then unexpectedly, before hearing the sound of her approach, Richard Hunt discovered a cold hand being extended to shake his, and in a voice even more chilling Polly O’Neill was apologizing for having kept him waiting. Yet on the way down the steps had she not positively made up her mind to be so cordial and agreeable that her visitor should forget her other deficiencies?
With a feeling of amazement mixed with despair Polly seated herself in the darkest corner of a small sofa next Mrs. Martins, deciding that it was quite useless, that she should attempt no explanation. Mr. Hunt and her companion could talk together about the weather if they chose, for she could not think of a single word to say. Afterwards her visitor could go away and give any account of her he wished, although naturally this might frustrate all her hopes and ambitions and make her dearest friends angry with her for life. Yet if one were always to suffer from stage fright at all the critical moments of one’s career what else could be expected?
At this moment Mrs. Martins excused herself and left the room. Polly saw her go with a characteristic shrug of her shoulders and an odd glance at her visitor. The moment had come. Mr. Hunt would discover that she had not even the grace to keep her promise, and heaven alone knew what he would soon think of her.
Yet after saying good-by to her companion he continued talking in the kindest possible fashion, telling her news of Esther and Dick Ashton, saying how much he admired Betty and Mollie.
Indeed in less than five minutes Polly had actually managed to forget the reason for her visitor’s call and was asking him questions about her old friends, faster than they could be answered.
“Was their play, A Woman’s Wit, still as great a success as it had been at the start? Was Margaret Adams well or had the winter’s work used her up? Did Betty Ashton seem to have any special admirer in Boston?”
Actually in a brief quarter of an hour Polly’s eyes were shining and her lips smiling. Curled up comfortably on her sofa she suddenly appreciated that she was having the most agreeable time she had enjoyed in months. Then again her expression changed and her brief radiance vanished. Yet this time her companion understood.
“Miss Polly,” he said quickly, “please don’t feel that after what happened yesterday I still mean to force you to make a confidant of me. The truth is I did want very much to hear that all was well with you and that you were not making any kind of mistake. I am not going to be a coward, so I confess that I came here today expecting to force your secret from you simply because I had an advantage over you. But, of course, now that we have been talking together I can see that you are all right, even if you do look rather tired and none too cheerful. So I want to apologize and then I shall go away and not worry you again. Also you may feel entirely assured that I shall not mention having seen you to any one.”
The man had risen from his chair, but before he could move a step forward, Polly had clasped her hands together and was gazing at him imploringly.