"You take an extreme view," begins the professor, a little feebly, perhaps. That eye and that pointed finger have cowed him. "One's views _have_ to be extreme in these days if one would continue in the paths of virtue," said Miss Majendie. _"Your_ views," with a piercing and condemnatory glance, "are evidently _not_ extreme. One word for all, Mr. Curzon, and this argument is at an end. I shall not permit my niece, with my permission, to walk with you or any other man whilst under my protection." "I daresay you are right--no doubt--no doubt" mumbles the professor, incoherently, now thoroughly frightened and demoralized. Good heavens! What an awful old woman! And to think that this poor child is under her care. He happens at this moment to look at the poor child, and the scorn _for him_ that gleams in her large eyes perfects his rout. To say that she was _right!_ "If Perpetua wishes to go for a walk," says Miss Majendie, breaking through a mist of angry feeling that is only half on the surface, "I am here to accompany her." "I don't want to go for a walk--with you," says Perpetua, rudely it must be confessed, though her tone is low and studiously reserved. "I don't want to go for a walk _at all."_ She pauses, and her voice chokes a little, and then suddenly she breaks into a small passion of vehemence. "I want to go somewhere, to _see_ something," she cries, gazing imploringly at Curzon. "To _see_ something!" says her aunt, "why it was only last Sunday I took you to Westminster Abbey, where you saw the grandest edifice in all the world." "Most interesting place," says the professor, _sotto voce,_ with a wild but mad hope of smoothing matters down for Perpetua's sake. If it _was_ for Perpetua's sake, she proves herself singularly ungrateful. She turns upon him a small vivid face, alight with indignation. "You support her," cries she. _"You!_ Well, I shall tell you! I"--defiantly--"I don't want to go to churches at all. I want to go to _theatres!_ There!" There is an awful silence. Miss Marjorie's face is a picture! If the girl had said she wanted to go to the devil instead of to the theatre, she could hardly have looked more horrified. She takes a step forward, closer to Perpetua. "Go to your room! And pray--_pray_ for a purer mind!" says she. "This is hereditary, all this! Only prayer can cast it out. And remember, this is the last word upon this subject. As long as you are under _my_ roof you shall never go to a sinful place of amusement. I forbid you ever to speak of theatres again." "I shall not be forbidden!" says Perpetua. She confronts her aunt with flaming eyes and crimson cheeks. "I _do_ want to go to the theatre, and to balls, and dances, and _everything_. I"--passionately, and with a most cruel, despairing longing in her young voice, "want to dance, to laugh, to sing, to amuse myself--to be the gayest thing in all the world!"