Lizzie came boisterously in, her cheeks red with the haste she had made, her eyes glistening with excitement.
"Polly Steele!" she exclaimed. "You here!"
The other girl bestowed on her one mischievous glance, then returned to the mirror.
"It looks like it, doesn't it? You don't happen to have seen Tom, I suppose?"
"Tom? Tom Duffield?"
"That's the gentleman. I've got a bit of news for you, my dear. Tom and I have made it up."
"Made it up?" She looked at the speaker inquisitorially, then read her meaning. "Oh, Polly, I'm so glad!"
"I thought you would be. He doesn't seem sorry."
"When was it? Last night at the theatre I didn't seem as if I could get a word with you."
"No? I wonder how that was." Polly eyed her friend, her face alive with mischief. "It was this morning, my dear. He came round while I was at breakfast, and he went on so, and he seemed so set on it, that I couldn't find it in my heart to keep on saying no. So the banns are to be put up on Sunday, and we're to be married a month to-day."