The professor goes rigid with horror. What has he _done_ that the
Fates should so visit him?

"They said something else too," goes on Perpetua, this time rather
angrily. "They said you were so clever that you always looked
unkempt. That?" thoughtfully, "means that you didn't brush your hair
enough. Never mind, _I'll_ brush it for you."

"Look here!" says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt,
but very genuine. "You must go, you know. Go, _at once!_ D'ye see?
You can't stay in this house, d'ye _hear?_ I can't permit it. What
did your father mean by bringing you up like this!"

"Like what?" She is staring at him. She has leant forward as if
surprised--and with a sigh the professor acknowledges the
uselessness of a fight between them; right or wrong she is sure to
win. He is bound to go to the wall. She is looking not only
surprised, but unnerved. The ebullition of wrath on the part of her
mild guardian has been a slight shock to her.

"Tell me?" persists she.

"Tell you! what is there to tell you? I should think the veriest
infant would have known she oughtn't to come here."

"I should think an infant would know nothing," with dignity. "All
your scientific researches have left you, I'm afraid, very ignorant.
And I should think that the very first thing even an infant would
do, if she could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian when
in trouble."