"I am sure it would be useless," says he, taking off his glasses and putting them on again in an anxious fashion. They are both speaking in whispers, and the professor is conscious of feeling a strange sort of pleasure in the thought that he is sharing a secret with her. "Besides," says he, "I couldn't very well come here again." "Not come again? Why?" "I'd be afraid," returns he simply. Whereon Miss Wynter, after a second's pause, gives way and laughs "consumedly," as they would have said long, long years before her pretty features saw the light. "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 _gentle_women 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.