But the professor does not seem offended. He seems, indeed, so
entirely unimpressed by Hardinge's last remark, that it may
reasonably be supposed he hasn't heard a word of it.

"And she?" says he. "Perpetua. Does she----" He hesitates, as if
finding it impossible to go on.

"Oh! I don't know," says the younger man, with a rather rueful
smile. "Sometimes I think she doesn't care for me more than she does
for the veriest stranger amongst her acquaintances, and
sometimes----" expressive pause.

"Yes? Sometimes?"

"She has seemed kind."

"Kind? How kind?"

"Well--friendly. More friendly than she is to others. Last night she
let me sit out three waltzes with her, and she only sat out one with
your brother."

"Is it?" asks the professor, in a dull, monotonous sort of way. "Is
it--I am not much in your or her world, you know--is it a very
marked thing for a girl to sit out three waltzes with one man?"

"Oh, no. Nothing very special. I have known girls do it often, but
she is not like other girls, is she?"