"Penny, Penny, my child!" he was crying wildly.
Pen's mother had died a young woman of a heart attack, and the fear that Pen might have inherited her weakness was ever present in the good, absurd little man's breast. It was Pen's final weapon. Be it said to her credit she had never used it before. She put her hand to her breast without speaking.
"Oh, my child! Look at me! Speak to me!" he implored.
"Help me to my room!" she whispered.
He made a manful attempt to pick her up in his arms, but she was as big as he. He could not lift her.
"What shall I do!" he wailed, wringing his hands.
"I can walk," she said. "If you will help me."
"But the stairs!"
"Let me lie down in the drawing-room until I feel better."
He helped her across the hall and Pen sank down on the old linen-covered sofa with the broken springs. She was still pressing her hand to her breast in that mute gesture that drove him to distraction. In truth she was pale enough, but it was not from heart disease.