What's that?" asked Peggy, catching her name and looking up from her
occupation. She caught Polly's eyes which had begun to snap. Polly had
also been too busy to pay much attention at first, but she had heard the
concluding sentences. She turned and looked at Lily with exactly the
expression upon her sixteen-year-old face which had overspread it years
before when the thirteen-year-old Polly had surprised the sentimental
"Thusan Thwingle" exchanging osculatory favors with "one of thothe
horrid boyths" in the basement of the high school at Montgentian. Then
she said with repressed vehemence:

"I only wish our boys could have heard you say that. If you wouldn't
come in for the running of your life my name's not Polly Howland. You'd
suit some of the boys back yonder, but not our bunch. Of all the hot
air! Stella, is your chafing-dish ready?"

Peggy had colored a rosy pink. She lacked Polly's experience with other
girls.

Piqued by Polly's superior rebuff, Helen came to the inane Lily Pearl's
support in a manner she knew would hit loyal Polly's most vulnerable
spot:

"Look at Peggy's face! Look at Peggy's face! Which is the particular He,
Peggy? Polly may be able to put up a big bluff, but your face is a dead
giveaway."

"I don't think you would be able to understand if I told you. Middie's
Haven and the 'bunch' are just a degree too high up for you to reach,
I'm afraid, and there's no elevator in Wilmot Hall," answered Peggy
quietly.

Polly laid down the things she was holding for Stella, dusted her hands
of chocolate crumbs by lightly rubbing her fingers together, and walked
quietly over to the couch. Helen looked somewhat alarmed and drew back
among her pillows.

Polly, never uttering one word, bent over, swooped up Helen, pillows and
all and holding her burden as she would have held a struggling baby,
walked straight out of the room and down, the corridor to her own room,
the shouts, screams and laughs of the girls following her. Helen was
absolutely speechless at the audacity of the act. Bumping her door
together by the only available means left her, since both arms were
occupied, Polly then plumped Helen, now almost ready to resort to
hysterical tears, upon a wooden shirt-waist box and placing herself in
front of her, struck the attitude of a little red-headed goddess of
vengeance as she said:

"Helen Doolittle, you may run _me_ all you've a mind to--it doesn't mean
a thing to me; I'm used to it; I've been t