There was a perceptible
tensity in the line of the jaw. But the beetle man made no answer.
"Now, if I could see behind those glasses," said Miss Polly
Brewster to her wicked little self, "I'd probably BITE myself
rather than say it again. Just the same--And a little bit sorry?"
she persisted aloud.
"Does that matter?" said the man quietly.
Miss Polly Brewster forthwith bit herself on her pink and wayward
tongue.
"Don't think I'm not grateful," she employed that chastened member
to say. "I am, most deeply. So will father be, even if he decides
not to leave. I'm afraid that's what he will decide."
"He mustn't."
"Tell him that yourself."
"I will, if it becomes necessary."
"Let me be present at the interview. Most people are afraid of
dad. Perhaps you'd be, too."
"I could always run away," he remarked, unsmiling. "You know how
well I do it."
"I must do it now myself, and get arrayed for the daily tea
sacrifice. Au revoir."
"Hasta manana," he said absently.
She had turned to go, but at the word she came slowly back a pace
or two, smiling.
"What a strange beetle man you are!" she said softly.
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