blighted beings?" asked
Sydney, smiling at the girl's pensive tone.

Polly glanced up at him and her face dimpled and shone again, as she
answered, laughing: "Not much; my time is to come."

"I can't imagine you walking about the world with your back hair down,
bewailing a hard-hearted lover," said Tom.

"Neither can I. That would n't be my way."

"No; Miss Polly would let concealment prey on her damask cheeks and
still smile on in the novel fashion, or turn sister of charity and nurse
the heartless lover through small-pox, or some other contagious disease,
and die seraphically, leaving him to the agonies of remorse and tardy
love."

Polly gave Sydney an indignant look as he said that in a slow satirical
way that nettled her very much, for she hated to be thought sentimental.

"That 's not my way either," she said decidedly. "I 'd try to outlive
it, and if I could n't, I 'd try to be the better for it. Disappointment
need n't make a woman a fool."

"Nor an old maid, if she 's pretty and good. Remember that, and don't
visit the sins of one blockhead on all the rest of mankind," said Tom,
laughing at her earnestness.

"I don't think there is the slightest possibility of Miss Polly's being
either," added Sydney with a look which made it evident that concealment
had not seriously damaged Polly's damask cheek as yet.

"There 's Clara Bird. I have n't seen her but once since she was
married. How pretty she looks!" and Polly retired behind the big glass
again, thinking the chat was becoming rather personal.

"Now, there 's a girl who tried a different cure for unrequited
affection from any you mention. People say she was fond of Belle's
brother. He did n't reciprocate but went off to India to spoil his
constitution, so Clara married a man twenty years older than she is and
consoles herself by being the best-dressed woman in the city."

"That accounts for it," said Polly, when Tom's long whisper ended.

"For what?"

"The tired look in her eyes."

"I don't see it," said Tom, after a survey through the glass.

"Did n't expect you would."

"I see what you mean. A good many women have it nowadays," said Sydney
over Polly's shoulder.

"What's she tired of? The old gentleman?" asked Tom.

"And herself," added Polly.

"You 've been reading French novels, I know you have. That 's just the
way the heroines go on," cried Tom.

"I have n't read one, but it 's evident you have, young man, and you 'd
better stop."