“‘But among the most prominent foibles of the age is dress. Every breeze (until the present war) wafted over some new Parisian extravagance and impropriety, and we had sufficient of our own without any importation of such French fashions, French manners, and French ruinations.’ Then, my dear, the same writer goes on to relate how, after an absence of fifteen years, he returned to his natal town, and on Sunday, when in church, he could not resist observing the dress of a certain young woman in his front. She wore ‘the Spanish cloak, the dome hat, the single thin muslin petticoat, and the still thinner loose robe that hung from her shoulders,’ all this making him suppose her to be some personage of no small importance. But, to his amaze, he found the young female to be—the butcher’s daughter! ’Tis a paper dated ‘August,’ and signed ‘Old Square Toes.’”
A pause, during which Polly’s thoughts flitted away to Fontainebleau, and then Mrs. Bryce started anew:—
“Listen next to this. ‘Definition of old gentleman of a civil shopkeeper. “His familiarity goes no farther than to accept whatever kind of weather I am pleased to bring, and to take in good part my opinion of the invasion.”’ Vastly entertaining. And now do but listen to somewhat else——”
But the “somewhat else” was never read, for Jack walked in unannounced, and with him a young fellow, Albert Peirce by name, nephew to the Admiral, and subaltern in a newly-arrived regiment at Shorncliffe.
Introductions followed, Polly bestowing one of her most graceful curtseys upon the new-comer, in consideration of his relationship to their old friends, Admiral and Mrs. Peirce. No doubt, too, Polly liked to be admired, as was natural in so pretty a girl, and she read instant appreciation of her charms in Mr. Peirce’s rather good-looking face. So she did her best to be agreeable to him during the next two hours, and seemed to be in tolerable spirits. Whether those spirits remained equally good, after she had disappeared from general observation, retiring to her room for the night, none about her could know.
Early the next morning Polly was roused from profound slumber by agitated sounds.
“Polly! Polly! Polly! Wake up this instant, Polly! I vow and protest the child is crazed! Wake up, Polly! Polly, do you hear? Polly, they’re coming!”
Polly roused herself with great deliberation. She was always a heavy sleeper in the morning, though lively enough at night, and she dragged herself to a sitting posture, with half-shut eyes and loosely-hanging hair, looking, it must be conceded, not quite so lovely as when generally visible to the world.
“Must I get up already, ma’am? ’Tis early.”
“Get up! And already, quotha! ’Tis time you bestirred yourself in right earnest. Polly, Polly, I entreat of you to make haste. For they’re coming; they’re on their way hither.”