POLLY'S WRATH Polly posted her letter on the way to the theatre.

This evening she had a private engagement for ten o'clock, and on setting forth to the appointed place she looked carefully about her to make sure that no one watched or followed her.

Christopher Parish was not the only young man who had a habit of standing to wait for her at the theatre door.

Upon him she could lay her commands with some assurance that they would be observed, but others were less submissive, and at times had given her trouble.

To be sure, she could always get rid of importunate persons by the use of her special gift, that primitive sarcasm which few cared to face for more than a minute or two; but with admirers Polly wished to be as far as possible gracious, never coming to extremities with one of them until she was quite certain that she thoroughly disliked him.
Finding the coast clear (which after all slightly disappointed her) she walked sharply into another street, where she hailed a passing hansom, and was driven to Lincoln's Inn Fields.
Here, on the quiet pavement shadowed by the College of Surgeons, she lingered in expectancy.