“I do not like Captain Peirce,” murmured Molly.
“Nobody desired you to like Captain Peirce, my dear Molly. ’Tis vastly more to the point whether Polly likes him, since of a certainty Captain Peirce’s affections are engaged in a certain direction, which may be named without difficulty. Captain Peirce is a prodigious favourite with everybody, especially, I can assure you, with all the young women of mode. And he has eyes for none of ’em except Polly.”
Polly looked studiously down, offering no remark; and Molly frowned.
“If Captain Peirce were what a man should be, he would never come after Polly as he does, knowing that Polly is engaged to another, and he out of reach!”
“Tut, tut, my dear Molly! Pish! Pshaw! What know you of such matters? A chit of a young female of sixteen! I’m positively ashamed of you! Why, you’re scarce out of the nursery, child. And here’s Polly, the prettiest girl in all London, past twenty-one, and not yet married. No, nor no chance to be married, while old Nap lives; and depend on’t, he’ll not die yet, for many a long year. Is Polly to wait and wait, till her prettiness goes, and she turns into an elderly maiden, whom no man of ton will ever deign to cast eyes upon, while Captain Ivor spends perhaps fifteen or twenty years in France, and forgets his past fancy, and marries some beauteous young Frenchwoman?”
Molly gazed at Polly’s downcast face. “But Polly knows Captain Ivor better!” she suggested.
“Knows Captain Ivor better! And how may that be?” demanded the vivacious lady. “Since Polly has seen him but from time to time, and that at long intervals, and I have been acquainted closely with him since he was left an orphan at the age of seven. Nor have I a word to speak against Captain Denham Ivor, save only that to expect Polly to wait for him twenty years, losing her bloom and growing old, would be altogether unreasonable. And I have said the same before, Molly.” Which certainly she had.
“Polly is still a long way off from growing old,” persisted Molly.
“Well, well, that’s as may be. But you’ve not divined my secret yet,” pursued Mrs. Bryce. “Jack will be at my Lady Hawthorn’s to-night; and ’tis not Jack of whom I speak. Captain Peirce will be there; and ’tis not Captain Peirce. The Admiral will be there; and ’tis not the Admiral. Somebody else also will be there—and ’tis he.”
Mrs. Bryce lifted a book from the table. “Who was it that read last week the ‘Lay of the Last Minstrel,’ and that said she would give half she was possessed of to set eyes on the writer of that most elegant poem?”