Polly was a second edition of her sister, only not so good-looking. She
had made up her mind to marry Mr. Jones, the curate, who for his part
was deeply in love with Beatrice.
"They are frightfully late, aren't they?" exclaimed Daisy Jenkins,
giving a slight yawn, and looking longingly out at the tennis courts as
she spoke. "I suppose it's the way with fashionable folk. For my part, I
call it rude. Mrs. Meadowsweet, may I run across the garden, and pick a
piece of sweet brier to put in the front of my dress? Somehow I pine for
it."
"I'll get it for you," said Albert Bell, blushing crimson as he spoke.
He was a very awkward young man, but his heart was as warm as his
manners were uncouth.
"I'll get it for you, Daisy," he said. His dull eyes had not the power
of shining or looking eloquent. He stepped from behind the sofa where
his sisters sat, and stumbled over Mrs. Meadowsweet's footstool.
"I think, my dears, we'll just wait for our guests," said the old lady.
"We'll all just be present, please, when they come. It's my
old-fashioned ideas, my loves, just for us all to be ready to give them
a right-down, good welcome."
"Bother!" exclaimed Miss Daisy. She flounced her full skirts, cast a
withering glance at young Bell, and once more looked out of the open
window.
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