Thurley looked up at her new friend to wonder what form the ooze took with him. But he good-naturedly patted her cheek, saying much to her relief: “I see you are human and not going to ask me to recite ‘Gunga Din.’ I return the compliment by not demanding that you tear off Tosti’s ‘Good-by.’ I only ran in to welcome you to our circle and to tell you, as senior member, a few facts about the others. They will tell you about me fast enough—” “Never happy unless he has a breach of promise suit waiting for him in the morning’s mail,” promptly supplemented Polly. “Always has it rumored he is to marry a prominent whiskey dealer’s widow—sells his mash notes per pound to Caleb, owns a hothouse of gardenias and has them shipped all over the map—at heart a flinty old bachelor warrior—a splendid, precious, cross pal—a jewel of an actor who makes you laugh and cry as easily as you breathe.” “There is a young woman,” said Sam calmly, pointing an accusing finger, “who will never write grand opera—never! Watch how pale she grows. But she will do something heroic, has all the salamander qualities with none of their viciousness. Would snatch a funeral wreath right off a door to make a present to some one she loved, very whippy temperament, believes that bothering over one’s soul is an emotional luxury, must have had an antique little romance back somewhere. Where did you come from, Polly, anyhow? Sort of neighborhood, I fancy, where the prevailing fashion was to have your great-aunt’s deceased poodles stuffed and mounted to preside over dark, chilly parlors.... Of course, Polly jumped the stockade and landed among us—a forlorn child with squeaky shoes, as I remember her. She’s as proud as Punch and stubborn as a bull terrier, so we let her starve knowing that sometime or other she is going to bump smack into Fame and he’ll never let go of her. But not grand opera, Polly girl.” “I shall stay in New York,” Polly announced, fastening her coat, “and I shall write a grand opera in which Thurley shall sing. You will all have to beg my pardon.” Her brown eyes showed the hurt in them and Sam Sparling began helping her with refractory buttons of her wrap. “I’ll have my apology engraved on a gold scroll and you can use it for a dinner gong—on the gong handle will be a bas relief of myself—gardenia and all. So you can beat me up thrice a day.” Thurley was laughing; she wondered if Miss Clergy had napped during the turmoil. “Don’t go,” she begged. “Please stay a long time.” “We can’t, we’ve a raft of calls. I always take Polly because she can break away so neatly. I’m the sort that sits and sits, ending by halfway swallowing my cane handle and getting nowhere in particular.” “Will we really go to the matinée?” she asked Polly. “Of course. I’ll call for you—and tea in Sam’s dressing room. Oh, Thurley, you haven’t begun to realize New York as yet—not Bliss’s New York, but your New York and mine and Sam’s, too.” “Why do you love it so?” asked Thurley.