the color once again dyeing her cheek. Quick tears have sprung to
her eyes. They seem to hurt the professor.

"One cannot be in mourning always," says he slowly. His manner is
still unfortunate.

"You evade the question," says she frowning. "But a concert _isn't_
like a ball, is it?"

"I don't know," says the professor, who indeed has had little
knowledge of either for years, and whose unlucky answer arises
solely from inability to give her an honest reply.

"You hesitate," says she, "you disapprove then. But," defiantly, "I
don't care--a concert is _not_ like a ball."

"No--I suppose not."

"I can see what you are thinking," returns she, struggling with her
mortification. "And it is very _hard_ of you. Just because _you_
don't care to go anywhere, you think I oughtn't to care either.
That is what is so selfish about people who are old. You," wilfully,
"are just as bad as Aunt Jane."

The professor looks at her. His face is perplexed--distressed--and
something more, but she cannot read that.

"Well, not quite perhaps," says she, relenting slightly. "But
nearly. And if you don't care you will grow like her. I hate people
who lecture me, and besides, I don't see why a guardian should