he. "Even '_without_
the title, he is worthy of esteem.'" She copies him audaciously. "What
has a title got to do with esteem?--and what has esteem got to do with
love?"

"I should hope----" begins the professor.

"You needn't. It has nothing to do with it, nothing _at all_. Go back
and tell Mr. Hardinge so; and tell him, too, that when next he goes
a-wooing, he had better do it in person."

"I am afraid I have damaged my mission," says the professor, who has
never once looked at her since his first swift glance.

"_Your_ mission?"

"Yes. It was mere nervousness that prevented him coming to you first
himself. He said he had little to go on, and he said something about a
flower that you gave him----"

Perpetua makes a rapid movement toward a side table, takes a flower from
a bouquet there, and throws it at the professor. There is no excuse to
be made for her beyond the fact that her heart feels breaking, and
people with broken hearts do strange things every day.

"I would give a flower to _anyone_!" says she in a quick scornful
fashion. The professor catches the ungraciously given gift, toys with
it, and--keeps it. Is that small action of his unseen?

"I hope," he says in a dull way, "that you are not angry with him
because he came first to me. It was a sense of duty--I know, I
_feel_--compelled him to do it, together with his honest diffidence
about your affection for him. Do not let pride stand in the way of----"

"Nonsense!" says Perpetua, with a rapid movement of her hand. "Pride has
no part in it. I do not care for Mr. Hardinge--I shall not marry him."

A little mist seems to gather before the professor's eyes. His glasses
seem in the way, he drops them, and now stands gazing at her as if
disbelieving his senses. In fact he does disbelieve in them.

"Are you sure?" persists he. "Afterwards you may regret----"

"Oh, no!" says she, shaking her head. "_Mr. Hardinge_ will not be the
one to cause me regret."

"Still think----"

"Think! Do you imagine I have not been thinking?" cries she, with sudden
passion. "Do you imagine I do not know why you plead his cause so
eloquently? You want to get _rid_ of me. You are _tired_ of me. You
always thought me heartless, about my poor father even, and unloving,
and--hateful, and----"

"Not heartless; what have I done, Perpetua, that you should say that?"

"Nothing. That is what I _detest_ about you. If you said outright what
you were thinking of me, I could bear