"_Finally._ Even if I would, I could not. I--have other views for her." "Indeed! Perhaps those other views include yourself. Are you thinking of reserving the prize for your own special benefit? A penniless guardian--a rich ward; as a situation, it is perfect; full of possibilities." "Take care," says the professor, advancing a step or two. "Tut! Do you think I can't see through your game?" says Sir Hastings, in his most offensive way, which is nasty indeed. "You hope to keep me unmarried. You tell yourself, I can't live much longer, at the pace I'm going. I know the old jargon--I have it by heart--given a year at the most the title and the heiress will both be yours! I can read you--I--" He breaks off to laugh sardonically, and the cough catching him, shakes him horribly. "But, no, by heaven!" cries he. "I'll destroy your hopes yet. I'll disappoint you. I'll marry. I'm a young man yet--yet--with life--_long_ life before me--life----" A terrible change comes over his face, he reels backwards, only saving himself by a blind clinging to a book-case on his right. The professor rushes to him and places his arm round him. With his foot he drags a chair nearer, into which Sir Hastings falls with a heavy groan. It is only a momentary attack, however; in a little while the leaden hue clears away, and, though still ghastly, his face looks more natural. "Brandy," gasps he faintly. The professor holds it to his lips, and after a minute or two he revives sufficiently to be able to sit up and look round him. "Thought you had got rid of me for good and all," says he, with a malicious grin, terrible to see on his white, drawn face. "But I'll beat you yet! There!--Call my fellow--he's below. Can't get about without a damned attendant in the morning, now. But I'll cure all that. I'll see you dead before I go to my own grave. I----" "Take your master to his carriage," says the professor to the man, who is now on the threshold. The maunderings of Sir Hastings--still hardly recovered from his late fit--strike horribly upon his ear, rendering him almost faint. CHAPTER XV. My love is like the sky, As distant and as high; Perchance she's fair and kind and bright, Perchance she's stormy--tearful quite-- Alas! I scarce know why." It is late in the day when the professor enters Lady Baring's house. He had determined not to wait till the morrow to see Perpetua. It seemed to him that it would be impossible to go through another sleepless night, with this raging doubt, this cruel uncertainty in his heart. He finds her in the library, the soft light of the dying evening falling on her little slender figure. She is sitting in a big armchair, all in black--as he best knows her--with a book upon her knee. She looks charming, and fresh as a new-born flower. Evidently neither last night's party nor to-day's afternoon have had power to dim her beauty. Sleep had visited _her_ last night, at all events.