As if in confirmation of this decision, she flings from her on to a distant chair the white opera cloak around her, and stands revealed as charming a thing as ever eye fell upon.  She is all in black, but black that sparkles and trembles and shines with every movement.  She seems, indeed, to be hung in jet, and out of all this sombre gleaming her white neck rises, pure and fresh and sweet as a little child’s.  Her long slight arms are devoid of gloves—­she had forgotten them, no doubt, but her slender fingers are covered with rings, and round her neck a diamond necklace clings as if in love with its resting place.

Diamonds indeed are everywhere.  In her hair, in her breast, on her neck, her fingers.  Her father, when luck came to him, had found his greatest joy in decking with these gems the delight of his heart.

The professor turns to Hardinge.  That young man, who had risen with the intention of leaving the room on Perpetua’s entrance, is now staring at her as if bewitched.  His expression is half puzzled, half amused.  Is this the professor’s troublesome ward?  This lovely, graceful——­

“Leave us!” says the professor sharply.  Hardinge, with a profound bow, quits the room, but not the house.  It would be impossible to go without hearing the termination of this exciting episode.  Everett’s rooms being providentially empty, he steps into them, and, having turned up the gas, drops into a chair and gives way to mirth.

Meantime the professor is staring at Perpetua.

“What has happened?” says he.

CHAPTER VII.

    “Take it to thy breast;
    Though thorns its stem invest,
    Gather them, with the rest!”

“She is unbearable. Unbearable!" returns Perpetua vehemently.  “When I came back from the concert to-night, she——­ But I won’t speak of her.  I won’t. And, at all events, I have done with her; I have left her.  I have come”—­with decision—­“to stay with you!”

“Eh?” says the professor.  It is a mere sound, but it expresses a great deal.

“To stay with you.  Yes,” nodding her head, “it has come to that at last.  I warned you it would. I couldn’t stay with her any longer.  I hate her!  So I have come to stay with you—­for ever!"

She has cuddled herself into an armchair, and, indeed, looks as if a life-long residence in this room is the plan she has laid out for herself.

“Good heavens!  What can you mean?” asks the poor professor, who should have sworn by the heathen gods, but in a weak moment falls back upon the good old formula.  He sinks upon the table next him, and makes ruin of the notes he had been scribbling—­the ink is still wet—­even whilst Hardinge was with him.  Could he only have known it, there are first proofs of them now upon his trousers.