Upon some sly affair Connubially dishonest-- Vide Lempriere-- Jupiter was _non est_. And dame Juno thought Scandal and écarté Consolation brought, So gave a little party.
Soon the Graces three Came, in evening dresses, Very fond of tea They were, with water-cresses. Venus came, and son, Who richly did deserve a Birching for the fun He made of Miss Minerva.
Soon an earthly guest Came by invitation, And, among the rest, Created a sensation. My Polly 'twas, and she Perfection so resembled, For her sov'reignty The Queen of Beauty trembled.
After tea there came A gambling speculation, Bringing with the game, Celestial perturbation. For my Polly, then, Playing with discretion, From each goddess won All her rich possession.
Pallas lost her mind, With wit and wisdom glowing; Aphrodite pined To see her beauty going. Juno speedily Lost her regal presence; And the Graces three, Lost their very essence.
On this earthly ball My Polly thus alighted, With the gifts of all The goddesses united. Is it strange that she, Without much endeavor, Quickly won from me Heart and soul for ever?
These fiery manifestations, however, had not the slightest effect upon the arctic nature of the frigid Polly. To be sure, her smile was still "kindly, but frosty," to reverse the Shakespearean aphorism, and as it was dispensed with due impartiality amongst the entire school of her admirers, none were driven to immediate despair, but each flattered himself at the time being that he was the favored one. Our limited supply of pocket-money was transmuted into rings and brooches, for Polly had an inordinate, or rather, the usual predilection of her sex, for _bijouterie_, and as the rings on trees denote the number of years that have rolled over their leafy heads, so the corresponding trophies upon Polly's taper fingers, denoted the amount of her victims.
The majority of her swains began, however, to slacken in their attentions, finally dropping off one by one, until the course was left to Rory and me--praiseworthy examples of a constancy of many months, although as yet not fully known to each other. It was about this time that rumors began to reach us that old Tom Gallagher, the red-headed, rusty-jointed medico, was a constant, and it was hinted, not unwelcome visitor at Polly's father's house--by the way, I forgot to mention that the O'Connor, _père_, was the master of a Charter-house school in the town, and as very a character as such individuals almost invariably are. He had originally been a soldier, so rough, unpolished, and uncouth, that it was a serious question in the neighborhood, if pretty Polly could by any possibility be an offshoot from such a crabbed stock.