“In his private office, yes, sir,” the clerk replied.
“Will you take my card to him and say that I would be pleased to see him?”
“Yes, sir,” the young man answered, and he took the bit of pasteboard and carried it into the back room.
In a few minutes he returned and said:
“Mr. Merritt will see you, sir.”
“Now, my dear little girl, will you mind sitting here for a few minutes, while I go in first to speak to Mr. Merritt alone?” Harcourt inquired of the child.
“Well, n—no,” said Owlet reluctantly, “not if you want me to do it. But you know Mr. Merritt is a very good friend of mine.”
“Yes, I know, and you shall come in and speak to him presently.”
“All right; go along. I will sit away off here by the window and look out on the street. I don’t want to hear your secrets,” said Owlet, with a ludicrous burlesque of childish dignity.
At a happier time Harcourt might have smiled at the little airs of the child, but now he only laid his hand kindly on her head, and then saying, “I will not be gone long,” passed into the inner room.