"A thoroughly bad, unprincipled boy!" was
Zara's verdict. And when Polly, big with pity, expostulated: "But Zara,
he is only six years old!" her sister retorted with a: "My dear, I know
the world, and you don't," to which Polly could think of no reply.
Zara had announced herself for a bare fortnight's stay; but the man who
carried her trunk groaned and sweated under it, and was so insolent
about the size of the coin she dropped in his palm that Polly followed
him by stealth into the passage, to make it up to a crown. As usual Zara
was attired in the height of fashion. She brought a set of "the hoops"
with her--the first to be seen on Ballarat--and once more Polly was
torn between an honest admiration of her sister's daring, and an equally
honest embarrassment at the notice she attracted. Zara swam and glided
about the streets, to the hilarious amazement of the population; floated
feather-light, billowing here, depressing there, with all the
waywardness of a child's balloon; supported--or so it seemed--by two
of the tiniest feet ever bestowed on mortal woman. Aha! but that was one
of the chief merits of "the hoops," declared Zara; that, and the
possibility of getting still more stuff into your skirts without
materially increasing their weight. There was something in that,
conceded Polly, who often felt hers drag heavy. Besides, as she reminded
Richard that night, when he lay alternately chuckling and snorting at
woman's folly, custom was everything.
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