“No,” said Phronsie; “I do not want it, Polly. I am going to take an orange in my bag. Please, Polly, let me tell you about it.”
Polly looked over at Jasper in despair. His eyes said, “Don’t worry, dear. Perhaps she won’t do it.”
“You see,” said Phronsie deliberately, “Miss Fitzwilliam must not be left to spread the story about Grace. And she won’t want to when I tell her all about it. She’ll feel sorry that she told in the first place.”
“You don’t know Miss Fitzwilliam, Phronsie, if you say so,” burst out Polly. “She’s the veriest gossip there is in all Berton—or the universe either. It won’t do a bit of good for you to go to see her. She can’t change, child; she’s too old.”
“Ah, but she must,” said Phronsie, shaking her head; “and if nobody tells her how wrong it is to set people against Grace—why, she will go on doing so all the time.”
“Phronsie,” said Polly desperately, and leaning past the coffee-urn, “I can’t bear to have you put yourself in that old gossip’s house. Oh, dear me! why is it that nobody puts her down? Everybody hates her; and then they listen to her stories just the same.”
“That’s just it,” said Jasper, pushing back his chair; “they listen to her stories, Polly, as you say. They’re as bad as she is, every whit.”
“But I can’t see them all, I’m afraid,” said Phronsie, setting down her empty glass. “Miss Fitzwilliam started it, so I ought to talk with her.”
“Phronsie, does Grandpapa know you’re going to see Miss Fitzwilliam?” asked Polly, seeing here a ray of hope that the visit to town would be given up.
“Oh, yes! did you think I would go to see her without telling Grandpapa, Polly?” asked Phronsie with a grieved look in her brown eyes.