"It's no good crying about it. It can't be helped, you know."
Pollyooly's quick ear caught the change in his tone. She sobbed more loudly:
"Oh, yes—it can—you could do it—if you wanted to!"
"These things have to be done in the proper way," protested the duke.
"It isn't that. You—you—don't like Millie!" sobbed Pollyooly, watching the weakening face of the perturbed nobleman with an intent eye over the top of her handkerchief. "You—you—hate her!"
"Why, I've never set eyes on her!" cried the duke.
"Oh, yes: you do—and it's—it's beastly," sobbed Pollyooly.
No duke likes to hear his conduct described as beastly by an angel child—especially when the description happens to be accurate—and the duke ground his teeth.
Pollyooly, watching him, sobbed on—louder.
The duke gazed at her in a dismal discomfort. He shuffled his feet till the shuffle was almost a dance. Then he said in a feebly soothing tone: