Some passing remark on Polly's good looks, and the suitability of her face and style for certain small characters in comedy,--the pink ribboned damsels who are made love to by smart valets,--induced Lady Cobham to include her in her list; and thus, on these meagre credentials, was she present. She did not want notice or desire recognition; she was far too happy to be there, to hear and see and mark and observe all around her, to care for any especial attention. If the haughty Arabellas and Georgianas who swept past her without so much as a glance, were not, in her own estimation, superior in personal attractions, she knew well that they were so in all the accidents of station and the advantages of dress; and perhaps--who knows?--the reflection was not such a discouraging one. No memorable event, no incident worth recording, marked her visit. In the world of such society the machinery moves with regularity and little friction. The comedy of real life is admirably played out by the well-bred, and Polly was charmed to see with what courtesy, what consideration, what deference people behaved to each other; and all without an effort,--perhaps without even a thought. It was on the following day, when she got home and sat beside her mother's chair, that she related all she had seen. Her heart was filled with joy; for, just as she was taking her leave, Lady Cobham had said, “You have been promised to us for Tuesday next, Miss Dill. Pray don't forget it!” And now she was busily engaged in the cares of toilette; and though it was a mere question of putting bows of a sky-blue ribbon on a muslin dress,--one of those little travesties by which rustic beauty emulates ball-room splendor,--to her eyes it assumed all the importance of a grand preparation, and one which she could not help occasionally rising to contemplate at a little distance. “Won't it be lovely, mamma,” she said, “with a moss-rose--a mere bud--on each of those bows? But I have n't told you of how he sang. He was the smallest little creature in the world, and he tripped across the room with his tiny feet like a bird, and he kissed Lady Cobham's hand with a sort of old-world gallantry, and pressed a little sprig of jasmine she gave him to his heart,--this way,--and then he sat down to the piano. I thought it strange to see a man play!” “Effeminate,--very,” muttered the old lady, as she wiped her spectacles.