“It's just this, Polly, I hate to tell you—” He paused, and gloom settled worse than ever over his face.
“Jasper,” said Polly quite firmly, and she laid her hand on his arm, “I really think you ought to tell me right away what is on your mind.”
“Do you really, Polly?” Jasper asked eagerly.
“Yes, I do,” said Polly, “unless you had rather tell Mamsie. Perhaps that would be best, Jasper.”
“No, I don't really think it would in this case, Polly. I will tell you.” So he drew up a chair, and Polly settled into it, and he perched on the end of the table.
“You see, Polly,” he began, “I hate to tell you, but if I don't, why of course you can't in the least understand how to help.”
“No, of course I can't,” said Polly, clasping her hands together tightly, and trying to wait patiently for the recital. Oh, what could it be!
“Well, Pickering isn't doing well at school,” said Jasper, in a burst. It was so much better to have it out at once.
“Oh dear me!” exclaimed Polly, in sorrow.
“No, he isn't,” said Jasper decidedly; “it grows worse and worse.”