“Mother, what is it? Who are these people?” she asked sharply.
Billy lifted her chin the least bit. She was conscious of a feeling which she could not name: Billy was not used to being called “these people” in precisely that tone of voice. William Henshaw, too, raised his chin. He, also, was not in the habit of being referred to as “these people.”
“My name is Henshaw, Miss—Greggory, I presume,” he said quietly. “I was sent here by Mr. Harlow.”
“About the teapot, my dear, you know,” stammered Mrs. Greggory, wetting her lips with an air of hurried apology and conciliation. “This gentleman says he will be glad to buy it. Er—my daughter, Alice, Mr. Henshaw,” she hastened on, in embarrassed introduction; “and Miss—”
“Neilson,” supplied the man, as she looked at Billy, and hesitated.
A swift red stained Alice Greggory's face. With barely an acknowledgment of the introductions she turned to her mother.
“Yes, dear, but that won't be necessary now. As I started to tell you when I came in, I have two new pupils; and so”—turning to the man again “I thank you for your offer, but we have decided not to sell the teapot at present.” As she finished her sentence she stepped one side as if to make room for the strangers to reach the door.
William Henshaw frowned angrily—that was the man; but his eyes—the collector's eyes—sought the teapot longingly. Before either the man or the collector could speak, however; Mrs. Greggory interposed quick words of remonstrance.
“But, Alice, my dear,” she almost sobbed. “You didn't wait to let me tell you. Mr. Henshaw says it is worth a hundred dollars to him. He will give us—a hundred dollars.”
“A hundred dollars!” echoed the girl, faintly.