As she entered, a man rose from a chair near the window and stood waiting. Although Sally could not see his face because of the light behind him, there was something vaguely familiar in his manner of rising from the chair and in his attitude. It troubled her.
"You wished to see me?" she asked, wondering why he did not come forward to meet her.
"Miss Sallie Ladue?" he asked in return. Sally's hand went to her heart involuntarily; her mother's trick, exactly. The man seemed to be smiling, although Sally could not see that, either. "I want to make sure. It is sometime since—"
"Turn around to the light, so that I can see your face," Sally commanded. Her voice was hard and cold. It may have penetrated his armor. He turned obediently, giving a short laugh as he did so.
"My face may be a trifle the worse for wear since you have seen me," he remarked airily. "A trifle the worse for wear; which yours is not. Has anybody ever told you, Sally, that you have become a lovely woman? Or wouldn't you care for that tribute?"
"We will not discuss my appearance, if you please." Sally's voice was still hard and cold; like steel. She came around in front of him and scrutinized his face closely. There could be no possible doubt. "Well, father?"
"You don't seem glad to see me, Sally. After an absence of—er—a hundred years or so, one would think that you might be. But, I repeat, you don't seem glad to see me."
"No," said Sally quietly. "I'm not."
He laughed. His laugh was unpleasant. "Truthful as ever, I see. Wouldn't it be better to mask the truth a little, when it must be as disagreeable as it is now? To draw even a thin veil over it, so that it can be perceived dimly—dimly if unmistakably?"
Sally shook her head and she did not smile. "I see no object in it. What is your purpose in seeing me now? I do not doubt that you have a purpose. What is it?"