"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. It was impossible. She slipped past the servants, her soft roe-skin shoes unheard on the old stone. She could see that he was curious, so she sat upon him and they rocked back and forth. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. The stage manager reappeared presently, and made a speech. Ann Veronica was one of the few young people—and one must have young people just as one must have flowers—one could ask to a little gathering without the risk of a painful discord. . He drew a little breath of relief.
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