After which exhilaration came the hint of a warning—Miss Clergy’s years of uselessness were the result of just such “psychic masquerading” fed by revenge and disappointment. After all, was this ooze merely confined to the great? Would they not have to yield a point and admit they had much in common with their neighbors?
CHAPTER XIV
When she came into the apartment sitting-room, she found Polly Harris in her shabby brown trappings and another member of the family whom Polly had dutifully brought to call.
“It’s Sam Sparling,” Polly announced in boyish fashion. “Have you seen by the papers he’s to open here Christmas afternoon? This is Bliss Hobart’s prize,” waving her hand in Thurley’s direction. “Now beware of Sam because even duchesses fall in love with him and he has trunks full of yellowed mash notes—”
Sam interrupted by frowning at Polly and saying, “Come over here, my dear, don’t be afraid. I’m too busy to get up a new affair before New Year’s.”
He had the cultured, pleasant voice of a well-bred Englishman and Thurley could picture his irresistible methods of love-making, although he was far older than she fancied and his mouth framed by ironical furrows. He had really white hair combed into a brisk pompadour, bright eyes like a young pointer’s and he dressed in noticeable fashion, with a fine black and white check suit with exaggerated flares, patent leather boots and silk shirt and tie matching the suit in pattern. Still, it was no wonder Sam Sparling could “get across” with Romeo one day and the next week be giving out an interview in which he was quoted as remembering the day Disraeli said to him—!
“What a dear she is!” he remarked to Polly. He had the habit of talking about a person in front of that person when he wished to be complimentary or to find fault. “A flapper in a thousand,” putting on gold pince-nez with the foreign straight-across nose-piece which Thurley had never seen. “By Jove, is Bliss sure she’s a singer? I could make an actress out of that girl.”
“You’ve not heard her sing,” Polly capered about. “When she sings, I am inspired to tear up all the opera scores I’ve fancied were any good and begin again. Because Thurley has promised me to sing the title rôle in my opera—now haven’t you?” Polly’s little face was distressingly in earnest.