But Mr. Gay--that was a different thing. She
looked upon Gay as a father--of her own father she had but a shadowy
recollection--though sometimes she thought she detected in him signs of
a warmer affection than that which a father usually bestows on a
daughter. She did not want this. She liked his visits. She was glad to
have his praise. She laughed when he persisted in calling her Polly--why
she knew not--but she was sure she could never endure his making love to
her.
In her heart of hearts she was afraid of this. The dread had much to do
with her encouragement of Dorrimore. Of course if she married it would
mean an estrangement between her and Gay and his powerful friends, and
most likely the end of her ambition to be a great actress. Her mind had
long been torn, and at the eleventh hour when she was on her way to meet
her fate in Dorrimore she still hesitated. If she really loved Dorrimore
there would have been no hesitation. But she had never met any man who
did more than flatter her and gratify the pleasure she felt at being
admired.
Her decision was in the balance. The weight of a feather would turn the
scale one way or another. The feather came in the shape of Dorrimore
himself. There he was in three cornered hat and cloak, his powdered wig
white in the moonlight, pacing up and down, his hand resting on his
sword hilt. He caught sight of the shrinking figure in the shadow and
the hat was doffed in a profound bow.
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