It was one of the days when everything went wrong, Polly said to
herself as she went out of the gate and down the silent street.
Molly had laughed at her, Aunt Jane had abused her, and, worst of
all, her mother had spoken to her more seriously than she had done
for a long time. That was the way it generally was with geniuses,
she thought, and reflected with a vindictive joy that some day or
other they would all be sorry for it. At this point she was
interrupted by hearing her name called in boyish tones,--
"Polly! Polly! I say, wait for a fellow; can't you?"
Turning, she saw Alan running after her, with his overcoat waving
in the breeze and his soft felt hat pulled low on his forehead.
"Where going?" he inquired briefly, as he overtook her and fell
into step by her side.
"To your house," she answered as briefly, not yet able to return
to her usual sunny manner.
"That's good," returned Alan cheerfully; then, as he surveyed her,
he added, "What's up, Polly? You don't seem to be particularly
festive this morning. Have you and Molly been having another pow-
wow?"
"A little one," confessed Polly.
"That's too bad," said Alan, with a paternal air of consolation.
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