Jasper gave her a keen glance. "All right," he said. "Come on," and before their resolution had time to cool itself, they rushed into the library.
"Oh, Grandpapa," they both cried together, "do come out and tell us how to fix the flowers."
"Hey?" The old gentleman whirled around from the table, where he had begun to throw the papers about. "Did you know Mrs. Chatterton had come back?" He glared at them over his spectacles, which he had forgotten to remove when he had been interrupted with the unwelcome news while peacefully reading the morning paper.
"Yes—oh, yes," said Jasper.
"Oh, yes, we know it," cried Polly cheerfully, "but, Grandpapa, we want you"—tugging at his hand.
"Hey? you knew it?" The old gentleman's tone softened, and he suffered himself to be led toward the door. "And you want me, eh?"—feeling with every step as if life, after all, might be worth living.
"Yes, we do indeed, Father," cried Jasper affectionately, possessing himself of the other hand.
"And oh, the flowers you sent are just too lovely for anything!" cried
Polly, dancing away along by his side. "They're gorgeous, Grandpapa dear."
"Are they so?" Grandpapa beamed at her, all his happiness returned. "So you want me to tell you how to arrange them, eh?" And his satisfaction in being appealed to was so intense that he held his head high. "Well, come on," and he laughed gayly.
Mrs. Chatterton, newly arrived in the handsome suite of apartments Cousin Horatio's hospitality always allowed her, looked out of the window, and, having no one else to confide her opinions to, was not averse to chatting with her French maid.