hair bristling with curl papers.
“My lord,” she gasped, recognizing her aristocratic visitor from the society photographs in
The Tatler
. “It is
eleven o’clock
.”
“I have come to see Miss Marsh on an urgent matter,” said the marquis in his most aristocratic tone.
Miss Thistlethwaite was torn between curiosity and her natural desire to exert her authority. Curiosity won. Holding open the door, she ushered him past the pampas grass and into the gloom of the sitting room, where the high-backed, hard upright chairs stood in their unwelcoming group. Miss Thistlethwaite lit the gas and bustled importantly up the stairs.
Polly climbed up through layers of dreams and staggered, half awake, to answer the persistent knocking at the door. Miss Thistlethwaite’s fat face swimming in the darkness of the corridor looked for a moment like the extension of her dreams. But then the all-too-real fruity accents informed her that “one of her aristocratic friends” was awaiting her in the sitting room. Polly lit her candle feverishly—the use of gas was not encouraged during the night hours—and then scrambled into her clothes. It must be Peter. Dear, dear Peter! Who else could it be?
Miss Thistlethwaite was entertaining the marquis with tepid tea and tepid conversation when Polly erupted into the sitting room and stood frozen with dismay at the sight of the marquis’s face. “I thought you were…” she began, but the marquis held up a long, white-gloved hand to silence her.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Thistlethwaite, and now, if you will excuse us…”
Miss Thistlethwaite rose reluctantly to her feet and seemed to take hours to leave the room. By the time the door was closed Polly had recovered her composure. Her future brother-in-law had no doubt hastened to make a social call. He looked very remote and aloof in his impeccable evening dress. Polly sat down primly on one of the hard chairs and smiled at him inquiringly. The marquis groaned to himself. Obviously she had not read
The Times
.
“Miss Marsh,” he began in his attractive husky voice, “I do not know whether you have seen the announcement of Peter’s engagement—”
“Oh,
yes
,” interrupted Polly blithely. “But that is all a lot of nonsense. I confess, all the same, that I was very upset until I received Peter’s letter of explanation.”
“There can be no explanation, dear girl, other than the obvious one, that Peter is engaged to Miss Bryant-Pettigrew.”
“Peter states quite clearly that he wishes to marry me,” said Polly firmly, radiant with beauty and confidence.
“Nonsense!” The chilly denial echoed around the wavering shadows of the room.
“I shall show you the letter. Wait there!” Polly jumped to her feet and rushed from the room. She was soon back, brandishing the letter like a flag.
The marquis took it silently and opened the stiff pages. As he read his brother’s letter, he was prey to a series of strange emotions. His first reaction was one of relief, the second anger, and the third, cold and fastidious distaste. His hooded lids covering the expression of his pale-gold eyes, he placed the letter on the table and said quietly, “He says nothing of marriage.”
“Not in so many words,” retorted Polly, looking amused. “What a difficult man you are to convince! One would think that the Marquis of Wollerton did not want Polly Marsh as a sister-in-law.”
“I don’t,” he remarked. “I think you might be too good for my brother. I don’t want to hurt you. Can’t you
see
that? But if you go on believing that Peter is going to marry you, you are going to be even more hurt in the end. It’s as plain as day that he is telling you that his engagement and marriage will not affect your future position as… his mistress.”
She got to her feet and stood looking down at him with quaint dignity. “You do not think much of me after all, my lord,” she said. “I would not have let Peter hold me and
“My lord,” she gasped, recognizing her aristocratic visitor from the society photographs in
The Tatler
. “It is
eleven o’clock
.”
“I have come to see Miss Marsh on an urgent matter,” said the marquis in his most aristocratic tone.
Miss Thistlethwaite was torn between curiosity and her natural desire to exert her authority. Curiosity won. Holding open the door, she ushered him past the pampas grass and into the gloom of the sitting room, where the high-backed, hard upright chairs stood in their unwelcoming group. Miss Thistlethwaite lit the gas and bustled importantly up the stairs.
Polly climbed up through layers of dreams and staggered, half awake, to answer the persistent knocking at the door. Miss Thistlethwaite’s fat face swimming in the darkness of the corridor looked for a moment like the extension of her dreams. But then the all-too-real fruity accents informed her that “one of her aristocratic friends” was awaiting her in the sitting room. Polly lit her candle feverishly—the use of gas was not encouraged during the night hours—and then scrambled into her clothes. It must be Peter. Dear, dear Peter! Who else could it be?
Miss Thistlethwaite was entertaining the marquis with tepid tea and tepid conversation when Polly erupted into the sitting room and stood frozen with dismay at the sight of the marquis’s face. “I thought you were…” she began, but the marquis held up a long, white-gloved hand to silence her.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Thistlethwaite, and now, if you will excuse us…”
Miss Thistlethwaite rose reluctantly to her feet and seemed to take hours to leave the room. By the time the door was closed Polly had recovered her composure. Her future brother-in-law had no doubt hastened to make a social call. He looked very remote and aloof in his impeccable evening dress. Polly sat down primly on one of the hard chairs and smiled at him inquiringly. The marquis groaned to himself. Obviously she had not read
The Times
.
“Miss Marsh,” he began in his attractive husky voice, “I do not know whether you have seen the announcement of Peter’s engagement—”
“Oh,
yes
,” interrupted Polly blithely. “But that is all a lot of nonsense. I confess, all the same, that I was very upset until I received Peter’s letter of explanation.”
“There can be no explanation, dear girl, other than the obvious one, that Peter is engaged to Miss Bryant-Pettigrew.”
“Peter states quite clearly that he wishes to marry me,” said Polly firmly, radiant with beauty and confidence.
“Nonsense!” The chilly denial echoed around the wavering shadows of the room.
“I shall show you the letter. Wait there!” Polly jumped to her feet and rushed from the room. She was soon back, brandishing the letter like a flag.
The marquis took it silently and opened the stiff pages. As he read his brother’s letter, he was prey to a series of strange emotions. His first reaction was one of relief, the second anger, and the third, cold and fastidious distaste. His hooded lids covering the expression of his pale-gold eyes, he placed the letter on the table and said quietly, “He says nothing of marriage.”
“Not in so many words,” retorted Polly, looking amused. “What a difficult man you are to convince! One would think that the Marquis of Wollerton did not want Polly Marsh as a sister-in-law.”
“I don’t,” he remarked. “I think you might be too good for my brother. I don’t want to hurt you. Can’t you
see
that? But if you go on believing that Peter is going to marry you, you are going to be even more hurt in the end. It’s as plain as day that he is telling you that his engagement and marriage will not affect your future position as… his mistress.”
She got to her feet and stood looking down at him with quaint dignity. “You do not think much of me after all, my lord,” she said. “I would not have let Peter hold me and
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