“Ah! yes,” murmurs she.  “How she did frighten you.  She brought you to your knees—­you actually”—­this with keen reproach—­“took her part against me.”

“I took her part to help you,” says the professor, feeling absurdly miserable.

“Yes,” sighing, “I daresay.  But though I know I should have suffered for it afterwards, it would have done me a world of good to hear somebody tell her his real opinion of her for once.  I should like,” calmly, “to see her writhe; she makes me writhe very often.”

“This is a bad school for you,” says the professor hurriedly.

“Yes?  Then why don’t you take me away from it?”

“If I could——­but——­ Well, I shall see,” says he vaguely.

“You will have to be very quick about it,” says she.  Her tone is quite ordinary; it never suggests itself to the professor that there is meaning beneath it.

“You have some friends surely?” says he.

“There is a Mrs. Constans who comes here sometimes to see Aunt Jane.  She is a young woman, and her mother was a friend of Aunt Jane’s, which accounts for it, I suppose.  She seems kind.  She said she would take me to a concert soon, but she has not been here for many days.  I daresay she has forgotten all about it by this time.”

She sighs.  The charming face so near the professor’s is looking sad again.  The white brow is puckered, the soft lips droop.  No, she cannot stay here, that is certain—­and yet it was her father’s wish, and who is he, the professor, that he should pretend to know how girls should be treated?  What if he should make a mistake?  And yet again, should a little brilliant face like that know sadness?  It is a problem difficult to solve.  All the professor’s learning fails him now.

“I hope she will remember.  Oh! she must,” declares he, gazing at Perpetua.  “You know I would do what I could for you, but your aunt—­you heard her—­she would not let you go anywhere with me.”

“True,” says Perpetua.  Here she moves back, and folds her arms stiffly across her bosom, and pokes out her chin, in an aggressive fashion, that creates a likeness on the spot, in spite of the youthful eyes, and brow, and hair. “’Young gentlewomen in our time, Mr. Curzon, never went out walking, alone, with A Man!’"

The mimicry is perfect.  The professor, after a faint struggle with his dignity, joins in her naughty mirth, and both laugh together.

"’Our’ time! she thinks you are a hundred and fifty!” says Miss Wynter.

“Well, so I am, in a way,” returns the professor, somewhat sadly.

“No, you’re not,” says she. "I know better than that, I” patting his arm reassuringly, “can guess your age better than she can.  I can see at once, that you are not a day older than poor, darling papa.  In fact you may be younger.  I am perfectly certain you are not more than fifty.”