As they
talked, their eyes rested on Polly's glossy black chignon; on the nape
of her white neck; on the beautiful, rounded young shoulders which, in
obedience to the fashion, stood right out of her blue silk bodice.
Mahony shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. He could
not imagine Polly enjoying her exposed position, and disapproved
strongly of John having left her. But for all answer to the hint he
threw out John said slowly, and with a somewhat unctuous relish: "My
sister has turned into a remarkably handsome woman!"--words which sent
the lightning-thought through Mahony that, had Polly remained the
insignificant little slip of a thing of earlier days, she would not have
been asked to fill the prominent place she did this evening.
John sent his adieux and excuses to Polly. He had done what was expected
of him, in showing himself at a public entertainment, and a vast mass of
correspondence lay unsorted on his desk. So Mahony moved forward alone.
"Oh, Richard, there you are! Oh dear, what you've missed! I never
thought there could be such acting." And Polly turned her great dark
eyes on her husband; they were moist from the noble sentiments of THE
TRUE BRITON.
The day of the election broke, a gusty spring day cut up by stinging
hail-showers, which beat like fusillades on the galvanised iron roofs.
Between the showers, the sun shone in a gentian-blue sky, against which
the little wooden houses showed up crassly white.
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