see! I'll
settle _you_ too, by and by." She smiles at him gaily, with the most
charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie within her
words. _Settle him!_

"Do you know I've heard people talking about you at Mrs. Constans',"
says she. She smiles and nods at him. The professor groans. To be talked
about! To be discussed! To be held up to vulgar comment! He writhes
inwardly. The thought is actual torture to him.

"They said----"

"_What?_" demands the professor, almost fiercely. How dare a feeble
feminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten
his small section of mankind!

"That you ought to be married," says Perpetua, sympathetically. "And
they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now; but that it
was a great pity you hadn't a daughter. _I_ think that too. Not about
your having a wife. That doesn't matter, but I really think you ought to
have a daughter to look after you."

This extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile.

"_I'll_ be your daughter," says she.

The professor goes rigid with horror. What has he _done_ that the Fates
should so visit him?

"They said something else too," goes on Perpetua, this time rather
angrily. "They said you were so clever that you always looked unkempt.
That," thoughtfully, "means that you didn't brush your hair enough.
Never mind, _I'll_ brush it for you."

"Look here!" says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt, but
very genuine. "You must go, you know. Go, _at once_! D'ye see? You can't
stay in this house, d'ye _hear_? I can't permit it. What did your father
mean by bringing you up like this!"

"Like what?" She is staring at him. She has leant forward as if
surprised--and with a sigh the professor acknowledges the uselessness of
a fight between them; right or wrong she is sure to win. He is bound to
go to the wall. She is looking not only surprised, but unnerved. This
ebullition of wrath on the part of her mild guardian has been a slight
shock to her.

"Tell me?" persists she.

"Tell you! what is there to tell you? I should think the veriest infant
would have known she oughtn't to come here."

"I should think an infant would know nothing," with dignity. "All your
scientific researches have left you, I'm afraid, very ignorant. And I
should think that the very first thing even an infant would do, if she
could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian when in trouble."

"At this hour?"