Then he had seen his brother!—­Hastings—­the disgrace, the roué—­ and bending over her!... There had been that little movement, and the girl’s calm drawing back, and——­

The professor’s step forward at that moment had betrayed him to Perpetua.

She rises now, letting her fan fall without thought to the ground.

“You!” cries she, in a little, soft, quick way. "You!" Indeed it seems to her impossible that it can be he.

She almost runs to him.  If she had quite understood Sir Hastings is impossible to know, for no one has ever asked her since, but certainly the advent of her guardian is a relief to her.

“You!” she says again, as if only half believing.  Her gaze grows bewildered.  If he had never seen her in anything but black before, she had never seen him in aught but rather antiquated morning clothes.  Is this really the professor?  Her eyes ask the question anxiously.  This tall, aristocratic, perfectly appointed man; this man who looks positively young.  Where are the glasses that until now hid his eyes?  Where is that old, old coat?

“Yes.”  Yes, the professor certainly and as disagreeable as possible.  His eyes are still aflame; but Perpetua is not afraid of him.  She is angry with him, in a measure, but not afraid.  One might be afraid of Sir Hastings, but of Mr. Curzon, no!

The professor had seen the glad rush of the girl towards him, and a terrible pang of delight had run through all his veins—­to be followed by a reaction.  She had come to him because she wanted him, because he might be of use to her, not because—­ What had Hastings been saying to her?  His wrathful eyes are on his brother rather than on her when he says: 

“You are tired?”

“Yes,” says Perpetua.

“Shall I take you to Gwendoline?”

“Yes,” says Perpetua again.

“Miss Wynter is in my care at present,” says Sir Hastings, coming indolently forward.  “Shall I take you to Lady Baring?” asks he, addressing Perpetua with a suave smile.

“She will come with me,” says the professor, with cold decision.

“A command!” says Sir Hastings, laughing lightly.  “See what it is, Miss Wynter, to have a hard-hearted guardian.”  He shrugs his shoulders.  Perpetua makes him a little bow, and follows the professor out of the conservatory.

“If you are tired,” says the professor, somewhat curtly, and without looking at her, “I should think the best thing you could do would be to go to bed!”

This astounding advice receives but little favor at Miss Wynter’s hands.

“I am tired of your brother,” says she promptly.  “He is as tiresome a creation as I know—­but not of your sister’s party; and—­I’m too old to be sent to bed, even by a Guardian!!" She puts a very big capital to the last word.

“I don’t want to send you to bed,” says the professor simply.  “Though I think little girls like you——­”