“Yet poor men have them,” says the girl in a little low stifled tone.  “And—­and girls have them too!”

There is a long, long silence.  To Curzon it seems as if the whole world has undergone a strange, wild upheaval.  What had she meant—­what?  Her words!  Her words meant something, but her looks, her eyes, oh, how much more they meant!  And yet to listen to her—­to believe—­he, her guardian, a poor man, and she an heiress!  Oh! no.  Impossible.

“So much the worse for the poor men,” says he deliberately.

There is no mistaking his meaning.  Perpetua makes a little rapid movement towards him—­an almost imperceptible one. Did she raise her hands as if to hold them out to him?  If so, it is so slight a gesture as scarcely to be remembered afterwards, and at all events, the professor takes no notice of it, presumably, therefore, he does not see it.

“It is late,” says Perpetua a moment afterwards.  “I must go and dress for dinner.” Her eyes are down now.  She looks pale and shamed.

“You have nothing to say, then?” asks the professor, compelling himself to the question.

“About what?”

“Hardinge.”

The girl turns a white face to his.

“Will you then compel me to marry him?” says she.  “Am I”—­faintly—­“nothing to you?  Nothing——­” She seems to fade back from him in the growing uncertainty of the light into the shadow of the corner beyond.  Curzon makes a step towards her.

At this moment the door is thrown suddenly open, and a man—­evidently a professional man—­advances into the room.

“Sir Thaddeus,” begins he, in a slow, measured way.

The professor stops dead short.  Even Perpetua looks amazed.

“I regret to be the messenger of bad news, sir,” says the solemn man in black.  “They told me I should find you here.  I have to tell you, Sir Thaddeus, that your brother, the late lamented Sir Hastings, is dead.”  The solemn man spread his hands abroad.

CHAPTER XVI.

    ’Till the secret be secret no more
    In the light of one hour as it flies,
    Be the hour as of suns that expire
    Or suns that rise.’

It is quite a month later.  August, hot and sunny, is reigning with quite a mad merriment, making the most of the days that be, knowing full well that the end of the summer is nigh.  The air is stifling; up from the warm earth comes the almost overpowering perfume of the late flowers.  Perpetua moving amongst the carnations and hollyhocks in her soft white cambric frock, gathers a few of the former in a languid manner to place in the bosom of her frock.  There they rest, a spot of blood color upon their white ground.

Lady Baring, on the death of her elder brother, had left town for the seclusion of her country home, carrying Perpetua with her.  She had grown very fond of the girl, and the fancy she had formed (before Sir Hastings’ death) that Thaddeus was in love with the young heiress, and that she would make him a suitable wife, had not suffered in any way through the fact of Sir Thaddeus having now become the head of the family.