The professor waves this question aside.

"Keep to the point," says he.

"Well, _she_ is the point, isn't she? And look here, Curzon, why
aren't you of our world? It is your own fault surely; when one sees
your sister, your brother, and--and _this,"_ with a slight glance
round the dull little apartment, "one cannot help wondering why
you----"

"Let that go by," says the professor. "I have explained it before. I
deliberately chose my own way in life, and I want nothing more than
I have. You think, then, that last night Miss Wynter gave
you--encouragement?"

"Oh! hardly that. And yet--she certainly seemed to like--that is not
to _dislike_ my being with her; and once--well,"--confusedly--"that
was nothing."

"It must have been something."

"No, really; and I shouldn't have mentioned it either--not for a
moment."

The professor's face changes. The apathy that has lain upon it for
the past five minutes now gives way to a touch of fierce despair. He
turns aside, as if to hide the tell-tale features, and going to the
window, gazes sightlessly on the hot, sunny street below.

What was it--_what?_ Shall he never have the courage to find out?