She has cuddled herself into an armchair, and, indeed, looks as if a
life-long residence in this room is the plan she has laid out for
herself.

"Good heavens! What can you mean?" asks the poor professor, who
should have sworn by the heathen gods, but in a weak moment falls
back upon the good old formula. He sinks upon the table next him,
and makes ruin of the notes he had been scribbling--the ink is still
wet--even whilst Hardinge was with him. Could he only have known it,
there are first proofs of them now upon his trousers.

"I have told you," says she. "Good gracious, what a funny room this
is! I told you she was abominable to me when I came home to-night.
She said dreadful things to me, and I don't care whether she is my
aunt or not, I shan't let her scold me for nothing; and--I'm afraid
I wasn't nice to her. I'm sorry for that, but--one isn't a bit of
stone, you know, and she said something--about my mother," her eyes
grow very brilliant here, "and when I walked up to her she
apologized for that, but afterwards she said something about poor,
_poor_ papa--and--well, that was the end. I told her--amongst _other
_things--that I thought she was 'too old to be alive,' and she
didn't seem to mind the 'other things' half as much as that, though
they were awful. At all events," with a little wave of her hands,
"she's lectured me now for good; I shall never see _her_ again! I've
run away to you! See?"

It must be acknowledged that the professor _doesn't_ see. He is
sitting on the edge of the table--dumb.