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Updated: May 15, 2025
I ain't no great shakes, ye know, but I'll walk the chalk all right this time. Golly! Ain't it squashy, though!" he exclaimed, as with a run and a skip he landed straight in the middle of the puffy bed. With one agitated hand Miss Wetherby rescued her pillow shams, and with the other, forcibly removed the dog which had lost no time in following his master into the feathery nest.
"Hi, there. Bones! We're all right! Golly but I thought we was side-tracked, fur sure!" Miss Wetherby sank in limp dismay to a box of freight near by the bared head disclosed the clustering brown curls and broad forehead, and the eyes uplifted to the whirling hat completed the tell-tale picture.
His remarks were cut short by a crash at the other end of the room. There was a sharp cry and the splintering of glass. The place was full of a sudden, sharp confusion. They jumped up with one accord. Lady Wetherby spilled her iced coffee; Lord Wetherby dropped the lamp of love.
He reached the table and sat down without invitation in the vacant chair. 'Pauline! he said, sorrowfully. 'Algie! said Lady Wetherby, tensely. 'I don't know what you've come here for, and I don't remember asking you to sit down and put your elbows on that table, but I want to begin by saying that I will not be called Pauline. My name's Polly.
Of course, it's the title that does it: 'Lady Pauline Wetherby! Algie says it oughtn't to be that, because I'm not the daughter of a duke, but I don't worry about that. It looks good, and that's all that matters. You can't get away from the title.
It was a cheerless, gray December morning that John Wetherby came into his mother's room and found a sob-shaken little figure in the depths of the sumptuous, satin-damask chair. "Mother, mother, why, mother!" There were amazement and real distress in John Wetherby's voice. "There, there, John, I I didn't mean to truly I didn't!" quavered the little old lady.
So he contented himself now with a mere pat of her hand as she gave the afghan a final smooth, and settled herself to read the letter aloud. "My dear Mrs. Chilton," Della Wetherby had written. "Just six times I have commenced a letter to you, and torn it up; so now I have decided not to 'commence' at all, but just to tell you what I want at once. I want Pollyanna. May I have her?
In the good old days, when she had been plain Polly Davis, of the personnel of the chorus of various musical comedies, Lady Wetherby would have suggested a short way of disposing of this untimely visitor; but she had a position to keep up now. 'From some darned paper? she asked, wearily. 'No, m'lady. I fancy he is not connected with the Press.
She was looking intently at Mr Pickering. 'Well, Dudley, she said, coldly, 'what about it? Mr Pickering found that they were all looking at him Lady Wetherby with glittering eyes, Claire with cool scorn, Lord Wetherby with a horror which he seemed to have achieved with something of an effort. 'Well! said Claire. 'What about it, Dudley? said Lady Wetherby.
Lady Wetherby regarded the practically slammed door with wide eyes. 'Quick exit of Nut Comedian! she said. 'Whatever was the matter with the man? He's scorched a trail in the carpet. Mr Pickering was trembling violently. 'Do you know who that was? He was the man! said Mr Pickering. 'What man? 'The man I caught looking in at the window that night! 'What nonsense! You must be mistaken.
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