control one's whole life, and thought, and action. A guardian,"
resentfully, "isn't one's conscience!"

"No. No. Thank Heaven!" says the professor, shocked. Perpetua stares
at him a moment and then breaks into a queer little laugh.

"You evidently have no desire to be mixed up with _my_ conscience,"
says she, a little angry in spite of her mirth. "Well, I don't want
you to have anything to do with it. That's _my_ affair. But, about
this concert,"--she leans towards him, resting her hand on the edge
of the carriage. "Do you think one should go _nowhere_ when wearing
black?"

"I think one should do just as one feels," says the professor
nervously.

"I wonder if one should _say_ just what one feels," says she. She
draws back haughtily, then wrath gets the better of dignity, and she
breaks out again. "What a _horrid_ answer! _You_ are unfeeling if
you like!"

"_I_ am?"

"Yes, yes! You would deny me this small gratification, you would
lock me up for ever with Aunt Jane, you would debar me from
everything! Oh!" her lips trembling, "how I wish--I
_wish--_guardians had never been invented."

The professor almost begins to wish the same. Almost--perhaps not
quite! That accusation about wishing to keep her locked up for ever