He leaned across the table toward the little huddle of her figure, the gentle villanelle of his emotions writ frankly across his features.
"Pearlie—"
"She'll be all right in a minute, Mr. Teitlebaum—like her papa she is, always so afraid of a little sickness."
"Pearlie, ain't you going to look at me?"
She sprang from his light hand on her shoulder, and the tears grew to little globules, trembled, fell. Then a sudden rod of resolution straightened her back.
"We—I been lying to you, Max; I ain't—sick!"
"Poil!"
"I—I think I know, little Pearlie!"
"Poil!"
"No, no; it's best we tell the truth, mamma."