She tossed her head indignantly. “I would not argue with any man less than six inches high!” she cried. “I'd make him work!” “What at?” said Arthur, listening to all this nonsense with an amused smile. “Embroidery!” she readily replied. “What lovely embroidery they would do!” “Yet, if they did it wrong,” I said, “you couldn't argue the question. I don't know why: but I agree that it couldn't be done.” “The reason is,” said Lady Muriel, “one couldn't sacrifice one's dignity so far.” “Of course one couldn't!” echoed Arthur. “Any more than one could argue with a potato. It would be altogether--excuse the ancient pun--infra dig.!” “I doubt it,” said I. “Even a pun doesn't quite convince me.” “Well, if that is not the reason,” said Lady Muriel, “what reason would you give?” I tried hard to understand the meaning of this question: but the persistent humming of the bees confused me, and there was a drowsiness in the air that made every thought stop and go to sleep before it had got well thought out: so all I could say was “That must depend on the weight of the potato.” I felt the remark was not so sensible as I should have liked it to be. But Lady Muriel seemed to take it quite as a matter of course. “In that case--” she began, but suddenly started, and turned away to listen. “Don't you hear him?” she said. “He's crying. We must go to him, somehow.” And I said to myself “That's very strange.” I quite thought it was Lady Muriel talking to me. “Why, it's Sylvie all the while!” And I made another great effort to say something that should have some meaning in it. “Is it about the potato?” CHAPTER 21. THROUGH THE IVORY DOOR. “I don't know,” said Sylvie. “Hush! I must think. I could go to him, by myself, well enough. But I want you to come too.” “Let me go with you,” I pleaded. “I can walk as fast as you can, I'm sure.” Sylvie laughed merrily. “What nonsense!” she cried. “Why, you ca'n't walk a bit! You're lying quite flat on your back! You don't understand these things.” “I can walk as well as you can,” I repeated. And I tried my best to walk a few steps: but the ground slipped away backwards, quite as fast as I could walk, so that I made no progress at all. Sylvie laughed again. “There, I told you so! You've no idea how funny you look, moving your feet about in the air, as if you were walking! Wait a bit. I'll ask the Professor what we'd better do.” And she knocked at his study-door. The door opened, and the Professor looked out. “What's that crying I heard just now?” he asked. “Is it a human animal?” “It's a boy,” Sylvie said. “I'm afraid you've been teasing him?” “No, indeed I haven't!” Sylvie said, very earnestly. “I never tease him!” “Well, I must ask the Other Professor about it.” He went back into the study, and we heard him whispering “small human animal--says she hasn't been teasing him--the kind that's called Boy--” “Ask her which Boy,” said a new voice. The Professor came out again.