of her for once. I should like," calmly, "to
see her writhe; she makes me writhe very often."

"This is a bad school for you," says the professor hurriedly.

"Yes? Then why don't you take me away from it?"

"If I could----but----Well, I shall see," says he vaguely.

"You will have to be very quick about it," says she. Her tone is quite
ordinary; it never suggests itself to the professor that there is
meaning beneath it.

"You have _some_ friends surely?" says he.

"There is a Mrs. Constans who comes here sometimes to see Aunt Jane. She
is a young woman, and her mother was a friend of Aunt Jane's, which
accounts for it, I suppose. She seems kind. She said she would take me
to a concert soon, but she has not been here for many days, I daresay
she has forgotten all about it by this time."

She sighs. The charming face so near the professor's is looking sad
again. The white brow is puckered, the soft lips droop. No, she cannot
stay _here_, that is certain--and yet it was her father's wish, and who
is he, the professor, that he should pretend to know how girls should be
treated? What if he should make a mistake? And yet again, should a
little brilliant face like that know sadness? It is a problem difficult
to solve. All the professor's learning fails him now.

"I hope she will remember. Oh! she _must_," declares he, gazing at
Perpetua. "You know I would do what I could for you, but your aunt--you
heard her--she would not let you go anywhere with me."

"True," says Perpetua. Here she moves back, and folds her arms stiffly
across her bosom, and pokes out her chin, in an aggressive fashion, that
creates a likeness on the spot, in spite of the youthful eyes, and brow,
and hair. "'Young _gentle_women in _our_ time, Mr. Curzon, never, went
out walking, _alone_, with _A Man_!"

The mimicry is perfect. The professor, after a faint struggle with his
dignity, joins in her naughty mirth, and both laugh together.

"'_Our_' time! she thinks you are a hundred and fifty!" says Miss
Wynter.

"Well, so I am, in a way," returns the professor, somewhat sadly.

"No, you're not," says she. "_I_ know better than that. I," patting his
arm reassuringly, "can guess your age better than she can. I can see _at
once_, that you are not a day older than poor, darling papa. In fact,
you may be younger. I am perfectly certain you are not more than fifty."

The professor says nothing. He is staring at her. He is beginning to
feel a little fo