“Mamma?” echoed Sir Giles, sitting puzzled on the footstool.
“Mamma?” re-echoed Mrs. Osborne in cooing accents of surprise.
“You see, Dad has told me all,” explained Polly, turning beaming, childlike eyes of happiness upon the embarrassed pair. “Though Cis knew before I did, and I hardly call that quite fair. But as he is to be your son, dear Mrs. Osborne—as I am to be your daughter——Why, there is the crackle arranged upon your cabinets already! How nice it looks! But it will all be yours, presently, won’t it, Mamma?” Polly gave Mrs. Osborne another kiss, and then fluttered over to Sir Giles, who sat petrified upon the footstool, and gave him a couple. “You mustn’t be jealous,” she said, “you foolish old Dad! And now, Mamma darling, won’t you give me some tea?”
“Dear Mary, with pleasure!” assented Mrs. Osborne, who knew that her hand had been forced, and yet could not help admiring the audacity of the coup. As her graceful form undulated to the tea-table, she cast a glance at Sir Giles, raising her beautifully tinted eyebrows almost to her golden-brown curls. She gave him credit for being a party to the plot, while he, poor astonished gentleman, was as innocent as a new-born babe. In the passing out of a cup of tea she realized that a double game was no longer possible, and that Polly Overshott had the stronger hand. “Your father,” she said, as she gave Polly her tea, “has enlisted a powerful advocate. All was not so settled as you seem to think, dear Mary, but——” And she sighed, and extended her white hand to Sir Giles, and helped him up from the footstool; and he was in the act of gracefully kissing that fair hand as Cis, in riding-dress, pale, agitated, and breathless from the gallop over, was ushered in.
“Cis!” cried Polly, realizing that the supreme moment of the Tug of War was now or never. Her eyes were blue fires, her cheeks red ones, as she moved swiftly and gracefully to her lover and led him forward. “Kiss Mamma and shake hands with Dad,” she said, and added with a coquetry of which Cis had never thought her capable: “and then, perhaps, you may kiss me.” Bewildered, choking with the reproaches, the recriminations with which he was bursting, and which it need hardly be explained were intended for Mrs. Osborne’s private ear, the young man obeyed.
“I—I congratulate you both,” he said thickly. Mrs. Osborne had never felt so little the niceties of a situation in her life. Nonplused, angry, and perturbed, she looked every hour of her age, despite pink curtains; and the powder only served to accentuate the suddenly revealed hollows in her face. Polly, as I have explained, had never worn such an air of coquetry, of brilliancy, of dare-devil, defiant mastery as she now displayed. But her final blow was to be dealt—and she dealt it.
“Mamma darling,” she cooed, taking the vacated stool at Mrs. Osborne’s feet—the stool contested for by both the discomfited wooers—“how cosy we are here—all together! Won’t you please Dad—and me—and Cis—by bringing out the pearls!”
“The—pearls!” Mrs. Osborne said. An electric shock went through her; she turned stabbing eyes upon the speechless Cis. And Sir Giles, studying her face, made up his mind that he would never marry that woman—not if Polly did her level best to bring the match about.
While Polly prattled on.
“The pearls, of course. I told Cis I thought it sweet of him to bring them to show you—as though I were really your daughter, don’t you know. And if you will fasten them round my neck yourself, I shall think it sweet of you. Where have you hidden them? Why, I believe you are wearing them now—to keep them warm for me—under your lace cravat, you dear, darling thing!”