A door off in the distance opened, but the sound fell unheeded.
"Boys!" Up flew their heads, for there was old Mr. King beckoning with an imperative hand. "Come to my room." And, not daring to look in each other's face, they found themselves once more behind the dreadful door, which was closed after them.
"Now, then, Jasper, my boy," and old Mr. King put a hand on his shoulder, "you sit there," pointing to a chair on one side of the writing-table, "and you, Ben, pull up another, there—that's right—get on my left hand. Now we are quite comfortable,"—and he sat down in his own big chair,—"where we can see each other and talk things over."
The old gentleman didn't look at them, but played with various trifles scattered over the table, the unlucky letter not being in sight, until such time as it might be supposed that everybody would be ready for conversation. Then he broke out quite easily, as if the most matter-of-fact thing were being said, "Well, now, that little matter of Pip you were going to tell me of. What is it, Jasper,—eh?"
"I didn't mean to ask you to do anything out of the way, Father," said Jasper, and his voice shook.
"Of course not, of course not," said his father, with a wave of the hand. "Well, I was a bit unstrung, my boy,"—he ran his fingers through his white hair,—"you must forgive your old dad." He coughed, twitched out his handkerchief, blew his nose violently, but didn't seem to get the better of it, especially as Jasper deserted his chair. "Oh, Father!" he cried, falling on his neck.
Ben slipped off his leather chair and crept to the door.
"Hold on!" thundered old Mr. King at him. "Where are you going, sir?"
"I thought—perhaps—you'd—" stammered Ben.
"You're not to think. Come back and sit down." Old Mr. King pointed to the chair, and Ben found himself on it again.