"Nothing!" echoes she. "Have you then forgotten?" She raises her head, and casts at him a swift, but burning glance. _"Was_ it nothing? You came to plead your friend's cause, I think. Surely that was something? I thought it a great deal. And what was it you said of Mr. Hardinge? Ah! I _have_ forgotten that, but I know how you extolled him--praised him to the skies--recommended him to me as a desirable suitor." She makes an impatient movement, as if to shake something from her. "Why have you come to-day?" asks she. "To plead his cause afresh?" "Not his--to-day." "Whose then? Another suitor, maybe? It seems I have more than even I dreamt of." "I do not know if you have dreamed of this one," says Curzon, perplexed by her manner. Some hope had been in his heart in his journey to her, but now it dies. There is little love truly in her small, vivid face, her gleaming eyes, her parted, scornful lips. "I am not given to dreams," says she, with a petulant shrug_. "I_ know what I mean always. And as I tell you, if you _have_ come here to-day to lay before me, for my consideration, the name of another of your friends who wishes to marry me, why I beg you to save me from suitors. I can make my choice from many, and when I _do_ want to marry, I shall choose for myself." "Still--if you would permit me to name _this_ one," begins Curzon, very humbly, "it can do you no harm to hear of him. And it all lies in your own power. You can, if you will, say yes, or----". He pauses. The pause is eloquent, and full of deep entreaty. "Or no," supplies she calmly. "True! You," with a half defiant, half saucy glance, "are beginning to learn that a guardian cannot control one altogether." "I don't think I ever controlled you, Perpetua." "N--o! Perhaps not. But then you tried to. That's worse." "Do you forbid me then to lay before you--this name--that I----?" "I have told you," says she, "that I can find a name for myself." "You forbid me to speak," says he slowly. _"I_ forbid! A ward forbid her guardian! I should be afraid!" says she, with an extremely naughty little glance at him. "You trifle with me," says the professor slowly, a little sternly, and with uncontrolled despair. "I thought--I believed--I was _mad _enough to imagine, from your manner to me that last night we met, that I was something more than a mere guardian to you." "More than _that._ That seems to be a Herculean relation. What more would you be?" "I am no longer that, at all events." "What!" cries she, flushing deeply. "You--you give me up----" "It is you who give _me_ up." "You say you will no longer be my guardian!" She seems struck with amazement at this declaration on his part. She had not believed him when he had before spoken of his intention of resigning. "But you cannot," says she. "You have promised. Papa _said_ you were to take care of me." "Your father did not know." "He _did._ He said you were the one man in all the world he could trust."