“It’s only a concert,” says she, flushing and hesitating.  “Do you think that one should not go to a concert when——­”

“Yes?” questions the professor abstractedly, as she comes to a full stop.  He has never seen her dressed like this before.  She is all in black to be sure, but such black, and her air!  She looks quite the little heiress, like a little queen indeed—­radiant, lovely.

"Well—­when one is in mourning,” says she somewhat impatiently, the color once again dyeing her cheek.  Quick tears have sprung to her eyes.  They seem to hurt the professor.

“One cannot be in mourning always,” says he slowly.  His manner is still unfortunate.

“You evade the question,” says she frowning.  “But a concert isn’t like a ball, is it?”

“I don’t know,” says the professor, who indeed has had little knowledge of either for years, and whose unlucky answer arises solely from inability to give her an honest reply.

“You hesitate,” says she, “you disapprove then.  But,” defiantly, “I don’t care—­a concert is not like a ball.”

“No—­I suppose not.”

“I can see what you are thinking,” returns she, struggling with her mortification.  “And it is very hard of you.  Just because you don’t care to go anywhere, you think I oughtn’t to care either.  That is what is so selfish about people who are old.  You,” wilfully, “are just as bad as Aunt Jane.”

The professor looks at her.  His face is perplexed—­distressed—­and something more, but she cannot read that.

“Well, not quite perhaps,” says she, relenting slightly.  “But nearly.  And if you don’t care you will grow like her.  I hate people who lecture me, and besides, I don’t see why a guardian should control one’s whole life, and thought, and action.  A guardian,” resentfully, “isn’t one’s conscience!”

“No.  No.  Thank Heaven!” says the professor, shocked.  Perpetua stares at him a moment and then breaks into a queer little laugh.

“You evidently have no desire to be mixed up with my conscience,” says she, a little angry in spite of her mirth.  “Well, I don’t want you to have anything to do with it.  That’s my affair.  But, about this concert,”—­she leans towards him, resting her hand on the edge of the carriage.  “Do you think one should go nowhere when wearing black?”

“I think one should do just as one feels,” says the professor nervously.

“I wonder if one should say just what one feels,” says she.  She draws back haughtily, then wrath gets the better of dignity, and she breaks out again.  “What a horrid answer! You are unfeeling if you like!”

“I am?”

“Yes, yes!  You would deny me this small gratification, you would lock me up for ever with Aunt Jane, you would debar me from everything!  Oh!” her lips trembling, “how I wish—­I wish—­guardians had never been invented.”