Polly laughed immoderately. "Such a queer compliment, Conny!"
"Hold your tongue, Conny."
"Go back to your book; we'll tell mamma," scolded the elder girls; and Conny hung her head, scarlet with shame and consternation.
Conny had truth on her side; yet Polly's independence and animal delight in life, in this artificial world, was not to be altogether despised either.
Polly maintained honestly that the girl had done no harm. She was glad she had never had to endure senior sisters, and if she had been afflicted with younger plagues, she would have made a point of not snubbing them, on the principle of fair play.
"And you were a little heathenish, Polly," suggested Joanna, "not giving fair play to the heroism of the ancients."
But Susan had long been waiting her turn, testifying more interest in her right to speak than she usually wasted on the affairs of the state. She wished to cross-examine Polly on a single important expression, and although Susan at least was wonderfully harmless, her patience could hold out no longer.
"Why are you afraid of being blowsy to-night, Polly?"
"I'm not frightened, I would not disturb myself about a risk; but you've kept an invitation all this time under my tongue, not in my pockets, I assure you;" and Polly elaborately emptied them, the foppish breast pocket, and that at the waist.
"It is only from Mrs. Maxwell," sighed Susan; "we are never invited anywhere except to Hurlton, in this easy way."