Apparently only one person in Mrs. Ashton's drawing-room up to this time
seemed to have gotten nothing at all out of Miss McMurtry's explanations
and the girls' discussion of a Camp Fire club. But then how could she,
for Sylvia Wharton apparently had not listened and certainly had never
taken her eyes from Polly's face? She appeared a stupid child, short
and stout and, although fourteen, hardly seemed more than twelve. Her
clothes were expensive but always inappropriate, indeed they were far
too handsome for such a plain little girl. However, they were in accord
with her father's taste, and although Mr. Wharton was now a wealthy man,
he had begun life as a stone-cutter and could hardly be expected to know
much about the proper way to dress a small, motherless daughter.
Several times in the past half hour Polly had almost yielded to the
inclination to implore Sylvia to take her eyes off her, for the little
girl did not look sensitive and her eyes were so large and
expressionless they made one uncomfortable, but then Polly forbore,
until, as her own interest in their meeting proceeded, she forgot all
about her inquisitor.
It must have been about five o'clock when Betty at last arose and
holding a curiously wrought silver ring, a bracelet and a pin in her
hand, started to walk slowly about among the circle of her guests.
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