"Well, well, perhaps I shouldn't say quite that," said Mr. King, correcting himself. "But, well, now, Phronsie, you run back to your play, child, and I'll set to work at once to think out this matter."
"I was writing a note to Mrs. Fargo," said Phronsie, putting up her lips for a kiss. "You are sure you won't make your head ache thinking about it, Grandpapa?" she asked anxiously.
"Sure as I can be, Phronsie," said old Mr. King, smiling. "Good-by, dear."
* * * * *
"See here, Pickering," Mr. Cabot threw wide the door of his private office with a nervous hand. "It is time I had a good talk with you. Come in; I never get one nowadays."
"Can't stop, Uncle," said Pickering hastily. "Besides, what would be the use, you never see anything encouraging about me or my career. And I believe I am going to the dogs."
"Indeed you are not, Pickering," cried Mr. Cabot quickly, the color rising to his cheek. "There, there, my sister's boy shall never say that. But come in, come in." He laid hold of Pickering's arm and gently forced him into the little room.
Not to be ungracious, the young man threw himself into a chair. "Well, what is it, Uncle? Do out with it; I'm in no mood for a lecture, though, this morning."
"I'm not going to lecture you, my boy," said Mr. Cabot, closing the door, then going to the mantel to lean one elbow on it, a favorite attitude of his, while he scanned his nephew. "But something worse than common has come to you. Can I help in any way?"
"No, no, don't ask me," ejaculated Pickering, striking his knee with one glove, and turning apprehensively in his chair. "Oh, hang it, Uncle, why can't you let me alone?"