is, till either she or her hostess tire one of the other.

The professor's heart sinks a little as he sees his sister rise and
loosen the laces round the girl's pretty, slender throat, begging
her to begin to feel at home at once. Alas! He has deliberately
given up his ward! _His_ ward! Is she any longer his? Has not the
great world claimed her now, and presently will she not belong to
it? So lovely, so sweet she is, will not all men run to snatch the
prize?--a prize, bejewelled too, not only by Nature, but by that
gross material charm that men call wealth. Well, well, he has done
his best for her. There was, indeed, nothing else left to do.



CHAPTER X.



"The sun is all about the world we see,
The breath and strength of very Spring; and we
Live, love, and feed on our own hearts."



The lights are burning low in the conservatory, soft perfumes from
the many flowers fill the air. From beyond--somewhere--(there is a
delicious drowsy uncertainty about the where)--comes the sound of
music, soft, rhythmical, and sweet. Perhaps it is from one of the
rooms outside--dimly seen through the green foliage--where the
lights are more brilliant, and forms are moving. But just in here