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Polly Neefit was, as we have said, as pretty a girl as you shall wish
to see, in spite of a nose that was almost a pug nose, and a mouth
that was a little large. I think, however, that she was perhaps
prettier at seventeen, when she would run up and down Conduit Street
on messages for her father,--who was not as yet aware that she had
ceased to be a child,--than she became afterwards at Hendon, when she
was twenty. In those early days her glossy black hair hung down her
face in curls. Now, she had a thing on the back of her head, and her
hair was manoeuvred after the usual fashion. But her laughing dark
eyes were full of good-humour, and looked as though they could be
filled also with feeling. Her complexion was perfect,--perfect at
twenty, though from its nature it would be apt to be fixed, and
perhaps rough and coarse at thirty. But at twenty it was perfect. It
was as is the colour of a half-blown rose, in which the variations
from white to pink, and almost to red, are so gradual and soft as
to have no limits. And then with her there was a charm beyond that
of the rose, for the hues would ever be changing. As she spoke or
laughed, or became serious or sat thoughtless, or pored over her
novel, the tint of her cheek and neck would change as this or that
emotion, be it ever so slight, played upon the current of her
blood. She was tall, and well made,--perhaps almost robust. She was
good-humoured, somewhat given to frank coquetry, and certainly fond
of young men. She had sense enough not to despise her father, and was
good enough to endeavour to make life bearable to her mother. She was
clever, too, in her way, and could say sprightly things. She read
novels, and loved a love story. She meant herself to have a grand
passion some day, but did not quite sympathise with her father's
views about gentlemen. Not that these views were discussed between
them, but each was gradually learning the mind of the other. It
was very pleasant to Polly Neefit to waltz with the good-looking
gasfitter;--and indeed to waltz with any man was a pleasure to Polly,
for dancing was her Paradise upon earth. And she liked talking to
Ontario Moggs, who was a clever man and had a great deal to say about
many things. She believed that Ontario Moggs was dying for her love,
but she had by no means made up her mind that Ontario was to be the
hero of the great passion. The great passion was quite a necessity
for her. She must have her romance. But Poll