should quite have enjoyed living with him, but he wouldn't hear of
it. He--he doesn't like me, I'm afraid?" Perpetua looks at him
anxiously. A little hope that he will contradict Hardinge's
statement animates her mind. To feel herself a burden to her
guardian--to anyone--she, who in the old home had been nothing less
than an idol! Surely Sir Hastings, his own brother, will say
something, will say something, will tell her something to ease this
chagrin at her heart.

"Who told you that?" asks Sir Hastings. "Did he himself? I shouldn't
put it beyond him. He is a misogynist; a mere bookworm! Of no
account. Do not waste a thought on him."

"You mean----"

"That he detests the best part of life--that he has deliberately
turned his back on all that makes our existence here worth having. I
should call him a fool, but that one so dislikes having an imbecile
in one's family."

"The best part of life! You say he has turned his back on that." She
lets her hands fall upon her knees, and turns a frowning, perplexed,
but always lovely face to his. "What is it," asks she, "that best
part?"

"Women!" returns he, slowly, undauntedly, in spite of the innocence,
the serenity, that shines in the young and exquisite face before
him.

Her eyes do not fall before his. She is plainly thinking. Yes; Mr.