“Oh, am I to get some credit for this?” returned the broker, smiling and twisting his mustache. “I didn't expect that.”
He knew her lack of motion would not last long, and was bracing himself for the attack when, to his surprise, she pulled up the impeding skirt and made a rush, not for him, but for the pony. Hiding her face on the creature's satin shoulder, she flung her arm around his throat, and seizing his rippling mane, sobbed as if her heart would break.
Mr. Evringham had not spent weeks in selecting and testing a horse for his granddaughter without choosing one whose nervous system would be proof against sudden assaults of affection; but this onslaught was so energetic that the pony tossed his head and backed to the end of his tether.
His new mistress stumbled after him, her face still hidden. She was trying heroically to stifle the sobs that were shaking her from head to foot.
“Jewel, Jewel, child!” ejaculated her grandfather, much dismayed. “Come, come, what's this?”
He drew her with a strong hand, and she deserted the pony, much to the latter's relief, and clasping Mr. Evringham as high up as she could reach, began bedewing his vest buttons with her tears.
“Oh, gra—grandpa, I c—can't have him!” she sobbed. “There isn't any roo—room for him in our—our fla—fla—flat!”
“Well, did you expect to keep him in the flat?” inquired Mr. Evringham, stooping tenderly, his own eyes shining suspiciously, as he put his arms around the little shaking form.
“N—no; but we—we haven't any bar—barn.”
The broker smiled above the voluminous, quivering bows.