“And you better run right over, and get him now,” said Polly, speaking very fast, “or I may run away, I shall get so scared.”
“You won't run away, I'll be bound,” cried Jasper, bursting into a merry laugh, and rushing off with a light heart. And presently, in less time than one could imagine, though to Polly it seemed an age, back he came, Pickering with him, all alive with curiosity to know what Polly Pepper wanted of him.
“It's about the play, I suppose,” he began, lolling into an easy-chair; “Jasper wouldn't tell me what it's all about; only seized me by the ear, and told me to come on. Draw up your chair, Jasper, and—why, hullo! where is the chap?” swinging his long figure around to stare.
“Pickering,” began Polly; and the den, usually the pleasantest place in all the house, was now like a prison, whose walls wouldn't let her breathe, “I don't know what to say. Oh dear me!” Poor Polly could get no further, but sat there in hopeless misery, looking at him.
“Eh—what? Oh, beg pardon,” exclaimed Pickering, whirling back in his chair, “but things are so very queer; first Jasper rushes off like a lunatic—”
“And I am worse,” said Polly, at last finding her tongue. “I don't wonder you think it's queer, Pickering, but Jasper does so love you, and it will just kill him if you don't study.” It was all out now, and in the most dreadful way. And feeling that she had quite destroyed all hope, Polly sat up pale and stiff in her chair.
Pickering threw his long figure out of the easy-chair, rushed up and down the den with immense strides, and came back to stand directly in front of her.
“Do you mean it, Polly?” His long face was working badly, and his hands were clenched, but as they were thrust deep within his pockets, Polly couldn't see them.
“Yes,” said Polly, “I do, Pickering.”
He stalked off again, but was back once more, Polly wondering how she could possibly bear to tell Jasper of her failure, for of course Pickering was very angry; when he said, “Polly, I want to tell you something.”