“Nothing; that is, the young fellow is all right, I suppose, only—why Phronsie is a mere child yet. She’s my little one!”
“Miss Phronsie is twenty years old,” said Mr. Marlowe.
“Bless me, why so she is!” exclaimed Mr. King. And then, as if a wholly new idea had struck him, he kept repeating to himself at intervals as the waiter brought the luncheon, “Phronsie is twenty years old. Phronsie is twenty years old!”
“It doesn’t seem a day since that child sent me her gingerbread boy,” he said aloud, when the meal was half over.
“I suppose so. That’s a way time has of treating us all,” said Mr. Marlowe. “Well, I am glad you broached this subject, Mr. King; and now, with your permission, we will finish it when we get back to my office.”
Jasper shot him a grateful glance; and quite easy in his mind about his father, now that the ice was really broken, and the dreaded subject open for future discussion, he gave a sigh of relief as he saw the countenance of the old gentleman lighten.
“I take it, Mr. King,” observed Mr. Marlowe, when they were once more in the little private office with orders for no callers to be admitted, “that Phronsie’s welfare is what you are most concerned about?”
“Yes, yes,” cried the old gentleman; “it is, Marlowe.”
“Then, that is really the only thing for us to consider in this conversation. You admit that you believe Phronsie to be deeply in love with this young sculptor?”
Old Mr. King whirled abruptly around on Jasper, “What say you, Jasper?” he cried. “Perhaps she isn’t,” with a sudden hope that Jasper might confirm this. But Jasper looked him steadily in the eyes. “You are right, father. Phronsie has loved him ever since you brought her home, I believe.”