The professor bowed again, without reply, and Sally turned to go.
It may have been that the professor's heart smote him. It may have been that he had been aware of Sally's unshed tears. It may have been that he regretted that he should have been the cause—but I may be doing him an injustice. Very likely he was above such things as the tears of his wife and his daughter. It is quite possible that he was as proud of his ability to draw tears as of his ability to draw, correctly, a bone that he never saw. Whatever the reason, he spoke again as Sally was opening the door.
"Will Miss Ladue," he asked, with an elaborate politeness, "honor my poor study with her presence when she has more leisure? When she has not Charlie on her mind? We can, if she pleases, go farther into the matter of lizards or of coal trees."
"Thank you, father," Sally replied.
Professor Ladue was conscious of a regret that she spoke without enthusiasm. But it was too much to expect—so soon.
"I shall be pleased," he said.
An idea, which seemed just to have occurred to Sally, made her face brighten. The professor noted it.
"And can—may I bring Henrietta?"
"Bring Henrietta!" cried the professor. "That is food for thought. Who is this Henrietta? It seems to me that you mentioned her once before."
"Yes," said Sally eagerly. "I did. She is Henrietta Sanderson and Fox Sanderson is her brother. He came to see you the other day. You weren't at home."