Polly got Jasper away into a side corridor by a beseeching little pull on his sleeve. "Oh, just to think," she mourned, "I called that great man such unpleasant things—that he was big and fat, and—oh, oh!"
"Well, he is big and fat," declared Jasper. "We can't say he isn't,
Polly."
"But I meant it all against him," said Polly, shaking her head. "You know I did, Jasper," she added remorsefully.
"Yes, we neither of us liked him," said Jasper, "and that's the honest truth, Polly."
"And to think it was that great Herr Bauricke!" exclaimed Polly. Then her feelings overcame her, and she sank down on the cushioned seat in the angle.
Jasper sat down beside her. "I suppose it won't do to say anything about people after this until we know them. Will it, Polly?"
"Jasper," declared Polly, clasping her hands, while the rosy colour flew over her cheek, "I'm never going to say a single—"
Just then the big form of Herr Bauricke loomed up before them, as he turned into the corridor.
Polly shrank up in her corner as small as she could, wishing she was as little as Phronsie, and could hop up and run away.
Herr Bauricke turned his sharp eyes on them for a moment, hesitated, then came directly up, and stopped in front of them. "I meant—I _in_tended to speak to your grandfader first. Dat not seem best now." The great man was really talking to them, and Polly held her breath, not daring to look into his face, but keeping her gaze on his wonderful fingers. "My child," those wonderful fingers seized her own, and clasped them tightly, "you have great promise, mind you, you know only a leedle now, and you must work—work—work." He brought it out so sharply, that the last word was fairly shrill. "But I tink you will," he added kindly, dropping his tone. Then he laid her fingers gently in her lap.