Sally shook her head. She could not have spoken, even if the question had called for a reply.
"Do you know what a specialist charges, Sally?"
She shook her head again.
"For taking a case like your mother's, Sally," he said slowly, "which would be nuts to him, I have no doubt, his charge would be more, in a week, than I could pay in ten years."
"It is very important," Sally urged. "It is very important for mother."
The professor rose. "Much as I regret the necessity, I feel obliged to decline." He made her a bow. "No specialists for this family. If your mother feels the need of a physician, let her call Doctor what's-his-name from the village."
Sally turned to go without a word.
"And, Sally," her father added, "be kind enough to tell your mother that important matters at the college require my attention. She is not to be alarmed if I fail to come in my usual train. I may be kept late."
The phrase sounded familiar. It was the old formula which Sally had hoped would not be used again. She went out quietly, feeling responsible. It was absurd, of course, but she could not help it. She meant to find Fox and tell him; but not quite yet. She couldn't bear it yet.
The matters at the college must have been very important, for they—or something—kept Professor Ladue late, as he had seemed to fear; the important matters—or something—must have kept him too late for the last train that night. To be sure, Sally did not know anything about it, at the time. She had not indulged a hope of anything else, and had gone to bed and to sleep as usual. For Sally was a healthy little animal, and she was asleep in a very few minutes after her head had touched the pillow. Her eyes may have been wet. Mrs. Ladue went to bed, too. Her eyes were not wet, but there was an ache in her head and another just above her heart. She may have gone to sleep at once or she may not. It is conceivable that she lay there, with her two aches, until after the last train had got in.