blundered through, murdering time and tune at her own sweet will.
The instant it was over Polly rushed away and bought not only the
kids but a bonnet frame, a bit of illusion, and a pink crape rose,
which had tempted her for weeks in a certain shop window, then
home and to work with all the skill and speed of a distracted
milliner.
“I ‘m rushing madly into expense, I ‘m afraid, but the fit is on me
and I ‘ll eat bread and water for a week to make up for it. I must
look nice, for Tom seldom takes me and ought to be gratified
when he does. I want to do like other girls, just for once, and enjoy
myself without thinking about right and wrong. Now a bit of pink
ribbon to tie it with, and I shall be done in time to do up my best
collar,” she said, turning her boxes topsy-turvy for the necessary
ribbon in that delightful flurry which young ladies feel on such
occasions.
It is my private opinion that the little shifts and struggles we poor
girls have to undergo beforehand give a peculiar relish to our fun
when we get it. This fact will account for the rapturous mood in
which Polly found herself when, after making her bonnet, washing
and ironing her best set, blacking her boots and mending her fan,
she at last, like Consuelo, “put on a little dress of black silk” and,
with the smaller adornments pinned up in a paper, started for the
Shaws’, finding it difficult to walk decorously when her heart was
dancing in her bosom.
Maud happened to be playing a redowa up in the parlor, and Polly
came prancing into the room so evidently spoiling for a dance that
Tom, who was there, found it impossible to resist catching her
about the waist, and putting her through the most intricate
evolutions till Maud’s fingers gave out.
“That was splendid! Oh, Tom, thank you so much for asking me
to-night. I feel just like having a regular good time,” cried Polly,
when she stopped, with her hat hanging round her neck and her
hair looking as if she had been out in a high wind.
“Glad of it. I felt so myself and thought we ‘d have a jolly little
party all in the family,” said Tom, looking much gratified at her
delight.
“Is Trix sick?” asked Polly.
“Gone to New York for a week.”
“Ah, when the cat’s away the mice will play.”
“Exactly. Come and have another turn.”
Before they could start, however, the awful spectacle of a little dog
trotting out of the room with a paper parcel in his mouth, made
Polly clasp her hands with the despairing cry: “My bonnet! Oh, my
bonnet!”
“Where? what? which?” And Tom looked about him, bewildered.
“Snip’s got it. Save it! save it!”
“I will!” And Tom gave chase with more vigor than discretion.
Snip, evidently regarding it as a game got up for his special
benefit, enjoyed the race immensely and scampered all over the
house, shaking the precious parcel like a rat while his master ran
and whistled, commanded and coaxed, in vain. Polly followed,
consumed with anxiety, and Maud laughed till Mrs. Shaw sent
down to know who was in hysterics. A piteous yelp from the lower
regions at last announced that the thief was captured, and Tom
appeared bearing Snip by the nape of the neck in one hand and
Polly’s cherished bonnet in the other.
“The little scamp was just going to worry it when I grabbed him. I
‘m afraid he has eaten one of your gloves. I can’t find it, and this
one is pretty well chewed up,” said Tom, bereaving Snip of the
torn kid, to which he still pertinaciously clung.
“Serves me right,” said Polly with a groan. “I ‘d no business to get a
new pair, but I wanted to be extra gorgeous to-night, and this is my
punishment for such mad extravagance.”
“Was there anything else?” asked Tom.
“Only my best cuffs and collar. You ‘ll probably find them in the
coal-bin,” said Polly, with the calmness of despair.