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.