Hardinge laughs with her. Not _at_ his friend, but _with_ her. It
seems clear to him that Perpetua is making gentle fun of her
guardian, and though his conscience smites him for encouraging her
in her naughtiness, still he cannot refrain.

"He is an awfully good old fellow," says he, throwing a sop to his
Cerberus.

"Is he?" says Perpetua, as if even _more_ amused. She looks up at
him, and then down again, and trifles with the fan she has taken
back from him, and finally laughs again; something in her laugh this
time, however, puzzles him.

"You don't like him?" hazards he. "After all, I suppose it is hardly
natural that a ward _should_ like her guardian."

"Yes? And _why?"_ asks Perpetua, still smiling, still apparently
amused.

"For one thing, the sense of restraint that belongs to the relations
between them. A guardian, you know, would be able to control one in
a measure."

"Would he?"

"Well, I imagine so. It is traditionary. And you?"

"I don't know about _other_ people," says Miss Wynter, calmly, "I
know only this, that nobody ever yet controlled _me,_ and I don't
suppose now that anybody ever will."