ut just a little
earnest! _Such_ a mistake!"

"I don't think that," says Perpetua. "To be earnest! One _should_ be
earnest."

"Should one?" Sir Hastings looks delighted expectation. "Tell me about
it," says he.

"There is nothing to tell," says Perpetua, a little petulantly perhaps.
This tall, thin man! what a _bore_ he is! And yet, the other--Mr.
Hardinge--well _he_ was worse; he was a _fool_, anyway; he didn't
understand the professor one bit! "I like Mr. Hardinge," says she
suddenly.

"Happy Hardinge! But little girls like you are good to everyone, are you
not? That is what makes you so lovely. You could be good to even a
scapegrace, eh? A poor, sad outcast like me?" He laughs and leans
towards her, his handsome, dissipated, abominable face close to hers.

Involuntarily she recoils.

"I hope everyone is good to you," says she. "Why should they not be? And
why do you call yourself an outcast? Only bad people are outcasts. And
bad people," slowly, "are not known, are they?"

"Certainly not," says he, disconcerted. This little girl from a far land
is proving herself too much for him. And it is not her words that
disconcert him so much as the straight, clear, open glance from her
thoughtful eyes.

To turn the conversation into another channel seems desirable to him.

"I hope you are happy here with my sister," says he, in his anything but
everyday tone.

"Quite happy, thank you. But I should have been happier still, I think,
if I had been allowed to stay with your brother."

Sir Hastings drops his glasses. Good heavens! what kind of a girl is
this!

"To stay with my brother! To _stay_," stammers he.

"Yes. He _is_ your brother, isn't he? The professor, I mean. I should
quite have enjoyed living with him, but he wouldn't hear of it. He--he
doesn't like me, I'm afraid?" Perpetua looks at him anxiously. A little
hope that he will contradict Hardinge's statement animates her mind. To
feel herself a burden to her guardian--to anyone--she, who in the old
home had been nothing less than an idol! Surely Sir Hastings, his own
brother, will say something, will tell her something to ease this
chagrin at her heart.

"Who told you that?" asks Sir Hastings. "Did he himself? I shouldn't put
it beyond him. He is a misogynist; a mere bookworm! Of no account. Do
not waste a thought on him."

"You mean----?"

"That he detests the best part of life--that he has deliberately turned
his back on all that makes our existe