"Oh, nothing, nothing—I'm sure I didn't mean," cried Mr. Cabot, starting back suddenly in astonishment. "Dear me, Pickering," taking off his eyeglasses to blow his nose, "you needn't pick me up so violently. I've been much worried about you," settling his glasses again for another look at his nephew. "And I can't tolerate any thoughts I cannot speak."
"I should think not," retorted Pickering shortly; "the trouble is in having the thoughts."
"And I am very much relieved to find that my fears are groundless—that you've been about nothing that my sister or I should be ashamed of," and he picked up courage to step forward gingerly and pat the young man on the shoulder. "You are in trouble, though, and I insist on knowing what it is."
Pickering dropped suddenly beneath his uncle's hand, into the nearest chair.
CHAPTER XI.
THINGS ARE GETTING MIXED.
"How can you ask me, Uncle?" cried Pickering passionately.
"Because I will know." Mr. Cabot was quite determined.
"Well, then, if you must have it, it's—it's Polly Pepper." Pickering could get no further.
"It's Polly Pepper!" ejaculated Mr. Cabot. Then a light broke over his face, and he laughed aloud, he was so pleased. "You mean, you are in love with Polly Pepper?"