of the good old stories--the 'goody' stories I would call
them if I were a man--of the amiable girl who went abroad in the old
pelisse, and who was wedded to the enthusiastic baronet? My dears, you
must have observed they were abominably untrue; the baronet, weak and
false, always, since the world began, marries the saucy, spendthrift
girl, who is prodigal in rich stuffs, and bright colours, and becoming
fits, and neat boots and shoes--who thinks him worth listening to, and
laughing with, and thinking about--the fool."

"Really, Polly, you are too bad," cried both Susan and Lilias at once;
their stock-in-trade exhausted, and not knowing very well what they
meant, or what they should suggest further if this sentence were not
answer enough.

"Now, I believe Joanna does not credit the goody stories, or does not
care for them, rather; but we are not all heroines, we cannot all afford
an equal indifference."

Joanna coloured until the red stain became undistinguishable, and even
Polly felt conscious that her allusion was too flippant for the cause.

"So you see, Lilias," she continued quickly, "I'm not the least ashamed
of having been caught fast asleep in my room before dinner the other
rainy day. I always curl myself up and go to sleep when I've got nothing
better to do, and I count the capacity a precious gift; besides, I will
let you into a secret worth your heads: it improves your looks immensely
after you've been gadding about for a number of days, and horribly
dissipated in dancing of nights at Christmas, or in the oratorio week,
or if you are in a town when the circuit is sitting--not present as a
prisoner, Conny."

"Polly!" blazed out Constantia, who, on the plea of the needle-like
sharpness and single-heartedness which sometimes distinguishes her
fifteen years, was permitted to be more plain-spoken and ruder than her
sisters; "I hate to hear you telling of doing everything you like with
such enjoyment. I think, if you had been a man, you would have been an
abominable fellow, and you are only harmless because you are a girl."

Polly laughed immoderately. "Such a queer compliment, Conny!"

"Hold your tongue, Conny."

"Go back to your book; we'll tell mamma," scolded the elder girls;
and Conny hung her head, scarlet with shame and consternation.

Conny had truth on her side; yet Polly's independence and animal
delight in life, in this artificial world, was not to be altogether
despised either.

Polly main