quite ordinary; it never suggests itself to the professor that there
is meaning beneath it.

"You have _some_ friends surely?" says he.

"There is a Mrs. Constans who comes here sometimes to see Aunt Jane.
She is a young woman, and her mother was a friend of Aunt Jane's,
which accounts for it, I suppose. She seems kind. She said she would
take me to a concert soon, but she has not been here for many days.
I daresay she has forgotten all about it by this time."

She sighs. The charming face so near the professor's is looking sad
again. The white brow is puckered, the soft lips droop. No, she
cannot stay _here,_ that is certain--and yet it was her father's
wish, and who is he, the professor, that he should pretend to know
how girls should be treated? What if he should make a mistake? And
yet again, should a little brilliant face like that know sadness? It
is a problem difficult to solve. All the professor's learning fails
him now.

"I hope she will remember. Oh! she _must,_" declares he, gazing at
Perpetua. "You know I would do what I could for you, but your
aunt--you heard her--she would not let you go anywhere with me."

"True," says Perpetua. Here she moves back, and folds her arms
stiffly across her bosom, and pokes out her chin, in an aggressive
fashion, that creates a likeness on the spot, in spite of the
youthful eyes, and brow, and hair. "'Young _gentle_women in _our_
time, Mr. Curzon, never went out walking, _alone,_ with _A Man!'"_