She doesn't expect you to make conversation."
"Why, my dear Regie," said Polly, "you've been talking the whole of
dinner-time!"
Leo had seated himself by the heiress. Poor Polly's eyes kept
wandering towards them, and (I suppose, because I had heard so much
about her) so did mine. It was only a quiet dinner-party, and Miss
Chislett had brought out her needlework, some gossamer lace affair,
and Leo leant over the sofa where she sat, playing with the contents
of her workbox. Polly's eyes and mine were not the only ones turned
towards them. Ours was not the only interest in the future Lady Damer.
Aunt Maria carried Polly off to the piano to "give us a little music,"
and I sat down and stultified myself with an album at the table, and
Frances Chislett chatted with Sir Lionel. They were close by me, and
every word they said was audible. It was the veriest chit-chat, and
Leo's remarks on the little bunch of charms and knicknacks that he
found in the workbox seemed trivial to foolishness. "I'd no idea Damer
was so empty-headed," I thought, and I rather despised Miss Chislett
for smiling at his feeble conversation.
"I often wonder what's the use of farthings," I heard him say as he
turned one over in the bunch of knicknacks.
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