"Polly if you
please. Polly is to be my name for ever after. Everybody knows me now as
Polly, though dear Mr. Gay called me so long and long ago. Isn't it
wonderful how his words have come true?"
"Mr. Gay is a clever man--a great man. I wish--"
"Yes, and what do you wish? Something nice I hope."
"I don't know about that. My wish was that I had been born a real poet
and dramatist and had written 'The Beggar's Opera' for you. But my wits
are dull--like myself."
"Please don't be foolish. I want you to tell me how I sang--how I acted.
You didn't mind Tom Walker making love to me?"
"No, I wished my arm had been round you instead of his, that was all."
"Wishing again! Can't you do something beyond wishing?"
She flashed a swift look at him and then the dark silky lashes drooped.
He must have been dull indeed not to have understood. His arm was about
her. He drew her closer to him passionately. It was the first time,
though he had over and over again longed to do so.
"I love you--don't you know I do?" he whispered.
"I've sometimes thought as much but you've been very slow in telling
me," she murmured lightly.
"Ah, I was afraid what your answer might be. Ridicule and a reproof for
my impertinence. Even now I don't realise my happiness."
"Then you _must_," she cried imperiously. "How do you know I shan't be
whirled away from you unless you hold me very tight? Oh, Lance, I've a
misgiving--"
She stopped.
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