He wrote on a slip of paper with an old stub of a pencil which he pulled from his pocket and handed her the paper. She read it and looked up at him quickly.
"Am I to make them out in this name?" she asked. "It is not—"
"It is not Ladue," he interrupted deliberately, but showing more emotion than he had shown hitherto. "Professor Charles Ladue, I would have you know, Sally, died about ten years ago, in extreme poverty and distress—of mind as well as of body."
Sally's tears overflowed and dropped, unheeded. She put out her hand impulsively, and laid it upon his.
"Oh, father!" she whispered. "I am sorry."
"I believe you are," he said. He rose. "Now I will go back to obscurity. Don't be too sorry for me," he added quickly. "I cultivate it."