"It was bad advice," says Curzon, taking the hand and holding it.
"Stay up, enjoy yourself, dance----"

"Oh! I am not dancing," says she as if offended.

"Why not?" eagerly. "Better dance than sleep at your age. You--you
mistook me. Why go so soon?"

She looks at him with a little whimsical expression.

"I shall not know you _at all_, presently," says she. "Your very
appearance to-night is strange to me, and now your sentiments! No, I
shall not be swayed by you. Good-night, good-bye!" She smiles at him
in the same sorrowful little way, and takes a step or two forward.

"Perpetua," says the professor sternly, "before you go, you must
listen to me. You said just now you would not hear me lie to
you--you shall hear only the truth. Whoever told you that I hated
you is the most unmitigated liar on record!"

Perpetua rubs her fan up and down against her cheek for a little
bit.

"Well--I'm glad you don't hate me," says she, "but still I'm a
worry. Never mind,"--sighing--"I daresay I shan't be so for long."

"You mean?" asks the professor anxiously.

"Nothing--nothing at all. Good-night. Good-night _indeed."_