“You are not dancing,” says the tall, gaunt man, who has now come up to her.  “So much I have seen.  Too warm?  Eh?  You show reason, I think.  And yet, if I might dare to hope that you would give me this waltz——­”

“No, no,” says she, still with her most charming air.  “I am not dancing to-night.  I shall not dance this year.”

“That is a Median law, no doubt,” says he.  “If you will not dance with me, then may I hope that you will give me the few too short moments that this waltz may contain?”

Hardinge makes a vague movement but an impetuous one.  If the girl had realized the fact of his love for her, she might have been touched and influenced by it, but as it is she feels only a sense of anger towards him.  Anger unplaced, undefined, yet nevertheless intense.

“With pleasure,” says she to Sir Hastings, smiling at him almost across Hardinge’s outstretched hand.  The latter draws back.

“You dismiss me?” says he, with a careful smile.  He bows to her—­he is gone.

“A well-meaning young man,” says Sir Hastings, following Hardinge’s retreating figure with a delightfully lenient smile.  “Good-looking too; but earnest.  Have you noticed it?  Entirely well-bred, but just a little earnest! Such a mistake!”

“I don’t think that,” says Perpetua.  “To be earnest!  One should be earnest.”

“Should one?” Sir Hastings looks delighted expectation.  “Tell me about it,” says he.

“There is nothing to tell,” says Perpetua, a little petulantly perhaps.  This tall, thin man! what a bore he is!  And yet, the other—­Mr. Hardinge—­well he was worse; he was a fool, anyway; he didn’t understand the professor one bit!  “I like Mr. Hardinge,” says she suddenly.

“Happy Hardinge!  But little girls like you are good to everyone, are you not?  That is what makes you so lovely.  You could be good to even a scapegrace, eh?  A poor, sad outcast like me?” He laughs and leans towards her, his handsome, dissipated, abominable face close to hers.

Involuntarily she recoils.

“I hope everyone is good to you,” says she.  “Why should they not be?  And why do you call yourself an outcast?  Only bad people are outcasts.  And bad people,” slowly, “are not known, are they?”

“Certainly not,” says he, disconcerted.  This little girl from a far land is proving herself too much for him.  And it is not her words that disconcert him so much as the straight, clear, open glance from the thoughtful eyes.

To turn the conversation into another channel seems desirable to him.

“I hope you are happy here with my sister,” says he, in his anything but everyday tone.

“Quite happy, thank you.  But I should have been happier still, I think, if I had been allowed to stay with your brother.”

Sir Hastings drops his glasses.  Good heavens! what kind of a girl is this!

“To stay with my brother!  To stay," stammers he.