Professor Ladue laughed shortly. "What a persistent child you are, Sally!"
"I have to be," she replied, trying not to show her disappointment. "I suppose you mean that you don't want me to bring Henrietta. Well, I won't. Perhaps I may come in some day and hear about the lizard."
He did what he had not expected to do. "Oh, bring her, by all means," he cried, with an assumed cheerfulness which would not have deceived you or me. It did not deceive Sally. "Bring her." He waved his hand inclusively. "Bring Henrietta and Margaret Savage and any others you can think of. Bring them all. I shall be pleased—honored." And again he bowed.
Sally was just opening the door. "Margaret Savage would not be interested," she said in a low voice, without turning her head, "and there aren't—"
"Sally," the professor interrupted in cold exasperation, "will you be good enough to project in my direction, what voice you think it best to use, when you speak to me? Will you be so kind? I do not believe that I am growing deaf, but I don't hear you."
Sally turned toward him. "Yes, father, I beg your pardon. I said that Margaret Savage wouldn't be interested," she repeated quietly and clearly, "and that there aren't any others."
He made an inarticulate noise in his throat. Sally was on the point of shutting the door.
"Sally!" he called.
The door opened again just far enough to show proper respect. "Yes, father?"
"Would your friend Henrietta really be interested in—in what she would probably hear?"