"Perpetua!" exclaims he, almost inarticulately, "you don't
understand."

"I do indeed," returns she brightly. "I've often settled papa's den.
What! do you think me only a silly useless creature? You shall see!
I'll settle _you_ too, by and by." She smiles at him gaily, with the
most charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie within
her words. _Settle him!_

"Do you know I've heard people talking about you at Mrs. Constans',"
says she. She smiles and nods at him. The professor groans. To be
talked about! To be discussed! To be held up to vulgar comment! He
writhes inwardly. The thought is actual torture to him.

"They said----"

_"What?"_ demands the professor, almost fiercely. How dare a feeble
feminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts to
enlighten his small section of mankind!

"That you ought to be married," says Perpetua, sympathetically. "And
they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now; but
that it was a great pity you hadn't a daughter. _I_ think that too.
Not about your having a wife. That doesn't matter, but I really
think you ought to have a daughter to look after you."

This extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile.

_"I'll_ be your daughter," says she.