"Not that," says he, raising his hand in his gentle fashion--that
has now something of haste in it. "It--I--you know what I mean,
Hardinge. To discuss her--herself, I mean--and here----"

"Yes. You are right," says Hardinge slowly, with, however, an
irrepressible stare at the professor. It is a prolonged stare. He is
very fond of Curzon, though knowing absolutely nothing about him
beyond the fact that he is eminently likeable; and it now strikes
him as strange that this silent, awkward, ill-dressed, clever man
should be the one to teach him how to behave himself. Who _is_
Curzon? Given a better tailor, and a worse brain, he might be a
reasonable-looking fellow enough, and not so old either--forty,
perhaps--perhaps less. "Have you no relation to whom you could send
her?" he says at length, that sudden curiosity as to who Curzon may
be prompting the question. "Some old lady? An aunt, for example?"

"She doesn't seem to like aunts," says the professor, with deep
dejection.

"Small blame to her," says Hardinge, smoking vigorously. _"I've_ an
aunt--but 'that's another story!' Well--haven't you a cousin
then?--or something?"

"I have a sister," says the professor slowly.

"Married?"

"A widow."

("Fusty old person, out somewhere in the wilds of Finchley," says