"Go on," says the professor.

"I needn't go on. You know it now, if you didn't before."

"It is you who know it--not I. _Say it!"_ says the professor, almost
fiercely. "It is about her?"

"Your ward? Yes. Your brother it seems has made up his mind to
bestow upon her his hand, his few remaining acres, and," with a
sneer, "his spotless reputation."

_"Hardinge!"_ cries the professor, springing to his feet as if shot.
He is evidently violently agitated. His companion mistakes the
nature of his excitement.

"Forgive me!" says he quickly. "Of course _nothing_ can excuse my
speaking of him like that--to you. But I feel you ought to be told.
Miss Wynter is in your care, you are in a measure responsible for
her future happiness--the happiness of her whole _life,_ Curzon--and
if anything goes wrong with her----"

The professor puts up his hand as if to check him. He has grown
ashen-grey, and the other hand resting on the back of the chair is
visibly trembling.

"Nothing shall go wrong with her," says he, in a curious tone.

Hardinge regards him keenly. Is this pallor, this unmistakable
trepidation, caused only by his dislike to hear his brother's real
character exposed?