or instance, one could never conceive of
Polly O'Neill in a pale blue gown, though for Mollie or Betty Ashton it
might be one's immediate choice. White and red, pale yellow or pink were
Polly's shades for evening wear and either brown or green for the
street.

Tonight at work on her letter she appeared younger than in truth she
was, like a girl of sixteen instead of nineteen. For although her hair
was worn in a heavy braided coil encircling her head, her dress was
extremely simple. It was of messaline silk of ivory whiteness and made
with a short Empire waist and narrow, clinging skirt. There was no sign
of trimming, except where the dress was cut low into a square at the
throat and edged with a fold of tulle.

On first coming into the sitting room, Polly, who had always an
instinctive attraction toward bright colors, had taken a red carnation
from a vase on a table and was now wearing the flower carelessly
fastened inside her belt.

During the first absorption of her writing she had paid no heed to the
door's quiet opening. Nor did she stir when a strange man entering the
room took his seat before the tiny fire which Miss Adams always had
lighted in the evenings, since the English summer is so often
unpleasantly cool to American people. Neither did the man appear to have
observed Polly.

When the girl finally did become aware of his presence she remembered
that Miss Adams had neglected to mention the name of the guest whom they
were expecting to dinner. And although Polly was becoming more
accustomed to the almost daily meetings with strangers, she always
suffered a few first moments of painful shyness.

The man happened to have his back turned toward her and had seated
himself in a comfortable big leather chair. Nevertheless as soon as she
stirred from her desk he got up instantly, facing her with a kind of
smiling and vague politeness such as one often employs in greeting a
stranger. Their guest was a good-looking man, with clear-cut features,
a smooth face and brown hair. He wore evening dress, of course, and held
himself with exceptional dignity and grace. He must have been about
twenty-seven or -eight years old. There was nothing in the least
formidable or disconcerting in his appearance, so it seemed distinctly
ungracious and stupid of Polly to commence their acquaintance by
stammering, "Oh, Oh, why--" and then continue to gaze into their
visitor's face without attempting to finish her utterly unintelligibl