It was Saturday morning, and Polly ran upstairs with a bright face, the
morning Journal in her hand. "I'm going to stay with Mrs. Chatterton,
Hortense," she announced to that functionary in the dressing-room.
"And a comfairte may it gif to you," said Hortense, with a vicious
shake of the silk wrapper in her hand, before hanging it in its place.
"Madame has the tres diablerie, cross as de two steeks, what you call
it, dis morning."
Polly went softly into the room, closing the door gently after her. In
the shadow of one corner of the large apartment, sat Mrs. Chatterton
under many wrappings in the depths of an invalid's chair. Polly went up
to her side.
"Would you like to have me read the news, Mrs. Chatterton?" she asked
gently.
Mrs. Chatterton turned her head and looked at her. "No," she was about
to say shortly, just as she had repulsed many little offers of Polly's
for the past few days; but somehow this morning the crackling of the
fresh sheet in the girl's hand, suggestive of crisp bits of gossip, was
too much for her to hear indifferently, especially as she was in a
worse state of mind than usual over Hortense and her bad temper.
"You may sit down and read a little, if you like," she said
ungraciously. So Polly, happy as a queen at the permission, slipped
into a convenient chair, and began at once. She happened fortunately on
just the right things for the hungry ears; a description of a large
church wedding, the day before; two or three bits about society people
that Mrs. Chatterton had lost sight of, and a few other items just as
acceptable.
Polly read on and on, from one thing to another, not daring to look up
to see the effect, until at last everything in the way of gossip was
exhausted.
"Is that all?" asked Mrs. Chatterton hungrily.
Polly, hunting the columns for anything, even a murder account if it
was but in high life, turned the paper again disconsolately, obliged to
confess it was.
"Well, do put it by, then," said Mrs. Chatterton sharply, "and not
whirl it before my face; it gives me a frightful headache."
"I might get the Town Talk" suggested Polly, as a bright thought struck
her. "It came yesterday. I saw it on the library table."
"So it is Saturday." Mrs. Chatterton looked up quickly. "Yes, you may,
Polly," her mouth watering for the revel she would have in its contents.
So Polly ran over the stairs with delighted feet, and into the library,
beginning to rummage over the papers and magazines on the reading table.
"Where is it?" she exclaimed, turning them with quick fingers. "O dear!
it was right here last evening."
"What is it?" asked Phronsie, from the depths of a big arm-chair, and
looking up from her book. Then she saw as soon as she had asked the
question that Polly was in trouble, so she laid down her book, and slid
out of the chair. "What is it, Polly? Let me help you, do."
"Why, the Town Talk--that hateful old society thing," said Polly,
throwing the papers to right and left. "You know, Phronsie; it has a
picture of a bottle of ink, and a big quill for a heading. O dear! do
help me, child, for she will get nervous if I am gone long."
"Oh! I know where that is," said Phronsie deliberately, laying a cool
little hand on Polly's hot one.
"Where?" demanded Polly feverishly. "Oh, Phronsie! where?"
"Jack Rutherford has it."
Polly threw down the papers, and started for the door.
"He has gone," said Phronsie; "he went home almost an hour ago."