“He is only ten,” Mr. Westwood was saying. “Julian is fourteen. But there isn’t difference enough to matter. You three will get on admirably together.
“Better let her go back with me,” he went on, turning to the Doctor. “Mrs. Calhoun, my sister, will fix her out in the way of clothes. You can buy anything in New York, from a shoestring to—”
Nobody heard the end of that sentence, for, with a leap, Polly had the floor. Her eyes flashed, and her voice was tense with anger and determination.
“Uncle Maurice,” she cried, “I s’pose you mean all right; but I guess my mother knows how to get my clothes just as well as anybody, and you needn’t think I’m going to New York, you needn’t think so a single second! Why, I wouldn’t leave father and mother for a million dollars! I wouldn’t go for ten million dollars!”
“Well, Miss Highflier!” Mr. Westwood threw back his head in a chuckling laugh. “Some spirit in that little frame of yours! Shouldn’t wonder if you took after your father. Chester was a fiery boy. Now, come here, and let me tell you something.”
Polly’s head went up defiantly. “I’m not going!” she insisted. “You needn’t think you can coax me into it! You can’t!”
“Polly!” The Doctor’s voice was gently admonitive.
“Excuse me,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean to be impolite. But I shan’t go!” She moved obediently towards her uncle, and he placed her on his knee, where she sat, submissive but alert.
“I want to tell you what a splendid time you’ll have with us,” he began.
“Other folks have tried to buy me,” remarked Polly.