“There Phronsie used to perch,” he said, smiling over at the young girl.
“O Grandpapa, she’s too big—why, she’s Aunt Phronsie, and she’s most dreadful old,” said Barby, leaning over to look at him.
“Well, she used to sit just where you are, Miss,” repeated the old gentleman. “Now, you be sure you’re always number two.” He pinched her toes, making her squirm and squeal.
“What’s numtwo?” she asked at length, all out of breath from play.
“Lucky you don’t know,” said the old gentleman, his mouth close to her ear; “well, it’s just always after number one, and never gets in front. There, now, jump down, and help Phronsie patch it up with the boys.” He put her on the floor, and went over to the corner, to sit down and view operations.
Phronsie, meanwhile, had a boy each side of her, both trying to get into her lap at once.
“It would just kill Mamsie,” she said mournfully, “to think of you two boys behaving so, and she’s only gone a week!”
There was an awful pause. The old gentleman over in the corner kept perfectly still; and Barby, finding all obstructions removed, placidly engaged in completing the destruction of Mother Fisher’s cushion.
“And you promised her, King, you’d be a good boy, and be nice to the children.”
“I—forgot,” blurted out King, winking very fast, and not looking at Elyot. “I—I—did. Don’t look so, Phronsie,” he mumbled; and instantly after his head went over in his sister’s lap, and he sobbed in her dress, “Don’t write her, Phronsie—don’t!”