The girl put her chin in her hand and cuddled her fingers over her mouth and her nose and part of her blue eyes.
"I don't go to the Lennarts' any more—if I can help it," she mumbled.
"Why not?" shouted Sagner.
She considered the question very carefully, then "Go ask the other girls," she answered a trifle hotly. "Go ask any one of them. We all stay away for exactly the same reason."
"What is the reason?" thundered Sagner in his most terrible laboratory manner.
When Sagner speaks like that to me, I always grab hold of my head with both hands and answer just as fast as I possibly can, for I remember only too distinctly all the shining assortment of different sized knives and scalpels in his workshop and I have always found that a small, narrow, quick question makes the smallest, narrowest, quickest, soon-overest incision into my secret.
But Madge Hubert only laughed at the laboratory manner.
"Say 'Please,'" she whispered.
"Please!" growled Sagner, with his very own blood flushing all over his face and hands.
"Now—what is it you want to know?" she asked, frittering her fingers all the time over that inky-looking pack of catalogue cards.