"What news—oh, what news?" cried Alexia, coming up, too frantic to remember her manners. "Please tell us girls, for we are dying to know."
"You come away!" retorted Mr. Whitney unceremoniously, and Mr. King laughed, and Polly shook her white fan at them as the two moved off, and it was just as bad as ever!
"Pickering, do you know?" at last demanded Alexia, as he leaned against the doorway surveying the bright crowd.
"Yes, I know enough—that is, I can guess—don't ask me."
"Oh, what!" breathlessly cried Alexia, seizing his arm; "do tell me, Pickering, that is a dear—oh, I thought I was talking to the girls—I don't know what I'm doing anyway, Polly has so upset me."
"Well, she has upset me, too, Alexia," said Pickering gloomily, "but it isn't her fault; she couldn't help it."
Alexia, feeling that here was coming something quite worth her while to hear, waited patiently.
"You all know I've loved Polly for years," said Pickering steadily; "I made no secret of it."
"I know it," said Alexia, full of sympathy, and not daring to breathe, lest she should spoil it all. "Well, go on."
"And when I was sick, I hoped that things might be different—for Polly was sorry for me. But one day Aunt was talking about it to me, in a way that made me mad, and I knew that Polly would be bothered awfully if she ever got at her, so I told Polly the first chance I got, that she was never to be sorry for me any more, for I'd made up my mind not to think of her in that way again; which was an awful lie," declared Pickering suddenly, standing quite erect, "for I can't help it."