“I have told you,” says she.  “Good gracious, what a funny room this is!  I told you she was abominable to me when I came home to-night.  She said dreadful things to me, and I don’t care whether she is my aunt or not, I shan’t let her scold me for nothing; and—­I’m afraid I wasn’t nice to her.  I’m sorry for that, but—­one isn’t a bit of stone, you know, and she said something—­about my mother,” her eyes grow very brilliant here, “and when I walked up to her she apologized for that, but afterwards she said something about poor, poor papa—­and—­well, that was the end.  I told her—­amongst other things—­that I thought she was ‘too old to be alive,’ and she didn’t seem to mind the ‘other things’ half as much as that, though they were awful.  At all events,” with a little wave of her hands, “she’s lectured me now for good; I shall never see her again!  I’ve run away to you!  See?”

It must be acknowledged that the professor doesn’t see.  He is sitting on the edge of the table—­dumb.

“Oh!  I’m so glad I’ve left her,” says Perpetua, with indeed heartfelt delight in look and tone.  “But—­do you know—­I’m hungry.  You—­you couldn’t let me make you a cup of tea, could you?  I’m dreadfully thirsty!  What’s that in your glass?”

“Nothing,” says the professor hastily.  He removes the half-finished tumbler of whisky and soda, and places it in the open cupboard.

“It looked like something," says she.  “But what about tea?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” says he, beginning to busy himself amongst many small contrivances in the same cupboard.  It has gone to his heart to hear that she is hungry and thirsty, but even in the midst of his preparations for her comfort, a feeling of rage takes possession of him.

He pulls his head out of the cupboard and turns to her.

“You must be mad!" says he.

“Mad?  Why?” asks she.

“To come here.  Here!  And at this hour!”

“There was no other place:  and I wasn’t going to live under her roof another second.  I said to myself that she was my aunt, but you were my guardian.  Both of you have been told to look after me, and I prefer to be looked after by you.  It is so simple,” says she, with a suspicion of contempt in her tone, “that I wonder why you wonder at it.  As I preferred you—­of course I have come to live with you.”

“You can’t!" gasps the professor, “you must go back to Miss Majendie at once!”

“To her! I’m not going back,” steadily.  “And even if I would,” triumphantly, “I couldn’t.  As she sleeps at the top of the house (to get air, she says), and so does her maid, you might ring until you were black in the face, and she wouldn’t hear you.”

“Well! you can’t stay here!” says the professor, getting off the table and addressing her with a truly noble attempt at sternness.

“Why can’t I?” There is some indignation in her tone.  “There’s lots of room here, isn’t there?”