'I'm going to hurry,' said Claire, clenching her fists as two
simultaneous bursts of song, in different keys and varying tempos,
proceeded from the dining-room and kitchen. A girl has to be in a
sunnier mood than she was to bear up without wincing under the
infliction of a duet consisting of the Rock of Ages and Waiting
for the Robert E. Lee. Assuredly Claire proposed to hurry. She
meant to get her packing done in record time and escape from this
place. She went into her bedroom and began to throw things
untidily into her trunk. She had put the letter in her pocket
against a more favourable time for perusal. A glance had told her
that it was from her friend Polly, Countess of Wetherby: that
Polly Davis of whom she had spoken to Lord Dawlish. Polly Davis,
now married for better or for worse to that curious invertebrate
person, Algie Wetherby, was the only real friend Claire had made
on the stage. A sort of shivering gentility had kept her aloof
from the rest of her fellow-workers, but it took more than a
shivering gentility to stave off Polly.

Claire had passed through the various stages of intimacy with her,
until on the occasion of Polly's marriage she had acted as her
bridesmaid.

It was a long letter, too long to be read until she was at
leisure, and written in a straggling hand that made reading
difficult. She was mildly surprised that Polly should have written
her, for she had been back in America a year or more now, and this
was her first letter. Polly had a warm heart and did not forget
her friends, but she was not a good correspondent.