"H-mph!" he said, reading, "Thanks me for my kind permission, does he? Now, Miss Ladue, can you give me any light upon that? What permission does he refer to? Permission to do what?" Sally shook her head. But her father was not looking. "Oh," he said; "h-m. I must have said that I'd see him." He read on. "I must even have said that he could study with me; that I'd help him. Very thoughtless of me, very thoughtless, indeed! It must have been after--well. And he will be here in the course of three weeks." The professor turned the leaf. "This was written a month ago. So he's here, is he, Sally?" "Yes," Sally answered, "he's here." The professor stood, for a few moments, looking at Sally, the slight smile on his lips expressive of mingled disgust and amusement. "Well," he observed, at last, "it appears to be one on me. I must have said it. I have a vague recollection of something of the kind, but the recollection is very vague. Do you like him, Sally?" "Oh, yes." Sally seemed to feel that that was too sweeping. "That is," she added, "I--I like him." Professor Ladue laughed lightly. Sally laughed, too, but in an embarrassed fashion. "That is satisfactory. You couldn't qualify it, Sally, could you? Tried hard, didn't you?" Sally flushed. "Well," continued the professor, "if you chance to see this Fox Sanderson, or any relative of his, will you convey to him my deep sense of pleasure at his presence? I shall be obliged to Miss Ladue if she will do that." "I will," said Sally gravely. Professor Ladue bowed. So far as he was concerned, the interview was closed. So far as Sally was concerned, it was not. "Well?" asked Sally. "May I bring Henrietta? You haven't answered that question, father." "Dear me! What an incomprehensible omission! I must be getting old and forgetful. Old and forgetful, Sally. It is a state that we all attain if we do not die first." "Yes," said Sally, "I suppose so. May I bring Henrietta, father?" 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--"