A door on the right side of the hall is opened cautiously; a shapely little head is as cautiously pushed through it, and two anxious red lips whisper:-- "Mr. Curzon," first, and then, as he turns in answer to the whisper, "Sh--_Sh_!" CHAPTER V. "My love is like the sea, As changeful and as free; Sometimes she's angry, sometimes rough, Yet oft she's smooth and calm enough-- Ay, much too calm for me." It is Perpetua. A sad-eyed, a tearful-eyed Perpetua, but a lovely Perpetua for all that. "Well?" says he. "_Sh!_" says she again, shaking her head ominously, and putting her forefinger against her lip. "Come in here," says she softly, under her breath. "Here," when he does come in, is a most untidy place, made up of all things heterogeneous. Now that he is nearer to her, he can see that she has been crying vehemently, and that the tears still stand thick within her eyes. "I felt I _must_ see you," says she, "to tell you--to ask you. To--Oh! you _heard_ what she said! Do--do _you_ think----?" "Not at all, not at all," declares the professor hurriedly. "Don't--_don't_ cry, Perpetua! Look here," laying his hand nervously upon her shoulder and giving her a little angry shake. "_Don't_ cry! Good heavens! Why should you mind that awful old woman?" Nevertheless, he had minded that awful old woman himself very considerably. "But--it _is_ soon, isn't it?" says she. "I know that myself, and yet--" wistfully--"I can't help it. I _do_ want to see things, and to amuse myself." "Naturally," says the professor. "And it isn't that I _forget_ him," says she in an eager, intense tone, "I _never_ forget him--never--never. Only I do want to laugh sometimes and to be happy, and to see Mr. Irving as Charles I." The climax is irresistible. The professor is unable to suppress a smile. "I'm afraid, from what I have heard, _that_ won't make you laugh," says he. "It will make me cry then. It is all the same," declares she, impartially. "I shall be enjoying myself, I shall be _seeing_ things. You--" doubtfully, and mindful of his last speech--"Haven't you seen him?" "Not for a long time, I regret to say. I--I'm always so busy," says the professor apologetically. "_Always_ studying?" questions she. "For the most part," returns the professor, an odd sensation growing within him that he is feeling ashamed of himself. "'All work and no play,'" begins Perpetua, and stops, and shakes her charming head at him. "_You_ will be a dull boy if you don't take care," says she. A ghost of a little smile warms her sad lips as she says this, and lights up her shining eyes like a ray of sunlight. Then it fades, and she grows sorrowful again. "Well, _I_ can't study," says she.