King set her abruptly
on the floor, and took a few turns up and down the room. Phronsie's
eyes followed him with a grieved expression. When she saw the distress
on his face, she ran up to him and seized his hand, but didn't speak.
"You see, child,"--he grasped her fingers and held them closely,--"it's
just this way: the gentleman wants to do me a favour; that is, to help
Polly with her music."
"Does he?" cried Phronsie, and she laughed in delight. "Oh, Grandpapa,
how nice! And Polly will be so happy."
"But I cannot possibly accept it," groaned old Mr. King; "don't you
see, child, after treating him so? Why, how could I? The idea is too
monstrous!" He set off now at such a brisk pace down the room that
Phronsie had hard work to keep up with him. But he clung to her hand.
"Won't that make the gentleman sorry?" panted Phronsie, trotting along
by his side.
"Eh--oh, what?" exclaimed old Mr. King, coming to a dead stop suddenly.
"What's that you say, Phronsie?"
"Won't the gentleman feel sorry?" repeated Phronsie, pushing back the
waves of yellow hair that had fallen over her face, to look up at him.
"And won't he feel badly then, Grandpapa?"
"Eh--oh, perhaps," assented Mr. King, slowly, and passing a troubled
hand across his brow. "Well, now, Phronsie, you come and sit in my lap
again, and we'll talk it over, and you tell me what I ought to do."
So the two got into the big chair again, and Phronsie folded her hands
in her lap.
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