Henrietta did answer the doorbell. The visitor was ushered to the library. Then away sped Henrietta up three flights of steps and through a tiresome number of corridors until at last she reached Sallie’s room on the top floor. She unlocked the door noiselessly, rapped on the panel and then announced, in a very good imitation of Sallie’s own voice:
“A gentleman in the library to see Miss Sallie Dickinson.”
“But there couldn’t be,” said Sallie. “I don’t know any gentleman.”
“But you do—or if you don’t, go down and get acquainted. Come on—you look all right.”
“It—it isn’t one of those Theologs—”
“Come on,” laughed Henrietta, “I’ll race you to the first floor.”
“It’s against the rules—”
“There’s nothing in the by-laws against sliding down the banisters. These nice black walnut ones were just made for that purpose. Down you go.”
“If I must, I must,” said resigned Sallie, meekly lying flat on the broad banister. “I know you’re playing some trick on me.”
“I thought you knew how to slide,” laughed Henrietta, following suit.