“I saw some little white things on the dining-room floor as I raced
through. Go get them, Maud, and we ‘ll repair damages,” said Tom,
shutting the culprit into the boot closet, where he placidly rolled
himself up and went to sleep.
“They ain’t hurt a bit,” proclaimed Maud, restoring the lost
treasures.
“Neither is my bonnet, for which I ‘m deeply grateful,” said Polly,
who had been examining it with a solicitude which made Tom’s
eyes twinkle.
“So am I, for it strikes me that is an uncommonly ‘nobby’ little
affair,” he said approvingly. Tom had a weakness for pale pink
roses, and perhaps Polly knew it.
“I ‘m afraid it ‘s too gay,” said Polly, with a dubious look.
“Not a bit. Sort of bridal, you know. Must be becoming. Put it on
and let ‘s see.”
“I would n’t for the world, with my hair all tumbling down. Don’t
look at me till I ‘m respectable, and don’t tell any one how I ‘ve
been acting. I think I must be a little crazy to-night,” said Polly,
gathering up her rescued finery and preparing to go and find Fan.
“Lunacy is mighty becoming, Polly. Try it again,” answered Tom,
watching her as she went laughing away, looking all the prettier
for her dishevelment. “Dress that girl up, and she ‘d be a raving,
tearing beauty,” added Tom to Maud in a lower tone as he look her
into the parlor under his arm.
Polly heard it and instantly resolved to be as “raving and as
tearing” as her means would allow, “just for one night,” she said as
she peeped over the banisters, glad to see that the dance and the
race had taken the “band-boxy” air out of Tom’s elegant array.
I deeply regret being obliged to shock the eyes and ears of such of
my readers as have a prejudice in favor of pure English by
expressions like the above, but, having rashly undertaken to write a
little story about Young America, for Young America, I feel bound
to depict my honored patrons as faithfully as my limited powers
permit. Otherwise, I must expect the crushing criticism, “Well, I
dare say it ‘s all very prim and proper, but it is n’t a bit like us,” and
never hope to arrive at the distinction of finding the covers of “An
Old-Fashioned Girl” the dirtiest in the library.
The friends had a social “cup o’ tea” upstairs, which Polly
considered the height of luxury, and then each took a mirror and
proceeded to prink to her heart’s content. The earnestness with
which Polly made her toilet that night was delightful to behold.
Feeling in a daring mood, she released her pretty hair from the
braids in which she usually wore it and permitted the curls to
display themselves in all their brown abundance, especially several
dangerous little ones about the temples and forehead. The putting
on of the rescued collar and cuffs was a task which absorbed her
whole mind. So was the settling of a minute bit of court-plaster
just to the left of the dimple in her chin, an unusual piece of
coquetry in which Polly would not have indulged, if an almost
invisible scratch had not given her an excuse for doing it. The
white, down-trimmed cloak, with certain imposing ornaments on
the hood, was assumed with becoming gravity and draped with
much advancing and retreating before the glass, as its wearer
practised the true Boston gait, elbows back, shoulders forward, a
bend and a slide, occasionally varied by a slight skip. But when
that bonnet went on, Polly actually held her breath till it was safely
landed and the pink rose bloomed above the smooth waves of hair
with what Fanny called “a ravishing effect.” At this successful
stage of affairs Polly found it impossible to resist the loan of a pair
of gold bands for the wrists and Fanny’s white fan with the little
mirror in the middle.
“I can put them in my pocket if I feel too much dressed,” said Polly
as she snapped on the bracelets, but after a wave or two of the fan
she felt that it would be impossible to take them off till the