As for Polly herself she was inundated with love letters, some written
seriously, others purely out of admiration. Offers of marriage came both
personally and through the post. The world of gallants was at her feet.
She laughed at most of her would-be lovers and listened to none. The
good natured Duke of Bolton approached her constantly and was never
tired of going to the opera. Seated as he was on the stage it was easy
enough for him to express his adoration. He was also ever ready with
presents which he proffered with so respectful an air that she could
hardly refuse them. But what did the duke mean? Had he not a duchess
already? True, he was not on the best of terms with her. He had been
forced into marriage by his father and he and his wife had been
separated some six years. But this made no difference. The duchess was
still in the world.
Polly--henceforth she dropped the Lavinia--heard what his grace had to
say but gave him no encouragement beyond smiling bewitchingly now and
again. She did not dislike him, but she did not care for him. Lancelot
Vane was still the hero of her romance and that romance would never die.
Sometimes she amused herself and Lancelot too by telling him of the
offers of marriage she had received and how she had refused them, but
she never mentioned the Duke of Bolton.
One night--it was the twenty-second performance of the opera--Lancelot
Vane was in his accustomed place at the end of the second row in the
pit.
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