“Who?” Again the name. “Heyl?” She repeated the name uncertainly. “I'm afraid I—O, of course! Clarence Heyl. Howdy-do.”
“I want to see you,” said the voice, promptly.
There rose up in Fanny's mind a cruelly clear picture of the little, sallow, sniveling school boy of her girlhood. The little boy with the big glasses and the shiny shoes, and the weak lungs.
“Sorry,” she replied, promptly, “but I'm afraid it's impossible. I'm leaving the office early, and I'm swamped.” Which was a lie.
“This evening?”
“I rarely plan anything for the evening. Too tired, as a rule.”
“Too tired to drive?”
“I'm afraid so.”
A brief silence. Then, “I'm coming out there to see you.”
“Where? Here? The plant! That's impossible, Mr. Heyl. I'm terribly sorry, but I can't——”