“The authors—­the authors of the play!” cried a strong voice, privately urged on by Mr. King.

“There, now’s your turn,” cried Clare to Polly.  “And go ahead, old dragon,” to Jasper, “make your prettiest bow.”

So the chief dragon led up blushing Polly to the front of the stage, to hear a neat little speech from Mr. Alstyne, thanking them for the pleasure of the evening and congratulating them on its success; and the band played again, the camp chairs were folded up and removed, the green-room and stage were deserted, and actors and audience mingled in a gay, confusing throng.

Phronsie, in her little silver and white gown and gleaming cap, began to wander among the guests, unconscious that she had not on the red cashmere dress she had worn all day.  Groups stopped their conversation to take her into their midst, passing her on at last as one might hand over a precious parcel to the next waiting hands.  Polly, seeing that she was well cared for, gave herself up to the enjoyment of the evening.

“Well, sir, how did you like it?” asked Jasper, with a small pat on Joel’s back.

“Well enough,” said Joel, “but why didn’t you make more of it?  You could have crawled up on top of the cave, and slashed around there; and you old dragons were just three muffs in the last act.  I’d rather have had Polly in the play; she’s twice the go in her.

“So would we all have preferred Polly,” cried Jasper, bursting into a laugh, “but she wouldn’t act—­she directed everything; she was all the play, in fact.”

Polly meanwhile was saying to Pickering Dodge, “No, not to-night; you must dance with one of the other girls.”

“But I don’t choose to dance with anybody but you,” said Pickering, holding out his hand.  “Come, Polly, you can’t refuse; they’re forming the Lancers.  Hurry!”

Polly’s feet twitched nervously under her white gown, and she longed more than ever after the excitement she had passed through, to lose herself in the witching music, and the mazy dance.  She hesitated a bit, but just then glancing across the room, “Come,” she said, “I want you to dance with Ray Simmons.  You can’t refuse,” using his own words; and before he was conscious how it was done, he was by Ray’s side, and asking for the pleasure of the dance.

Polly stood quite still and saw them go away and take the last places in the set, and a sorry little droop fell upon the curves of the laughing mouth.  She was very tired, and the elation that had possessed her over the success of the evening was fast dropping out, now that everybody was enjoying themselves in their own way, leaving her alone.  She felt left out in the cold; and though she fought against it, a faint feeling of regret stole over her for what she had done.  She almost wished she was standing there by the side of Picketing Dodge, one of the bright group on whom the eyes of the older people were all turned, as they waited for the first figure to begin.