The professor puts up his hand as if to check him.  He has grown ashen-grey, and the other hand resting on the back of the chair is visibly trembling.

“Nothing shall go wrong with her,” says he, in a curious tone.

Hardinge regards him keenly.  Is this pallor, this unmistakable trepidation, caused only by his dislike to hear his brother’s real character exposed?

“Well, I have told you,” says he coldly.

“It is a mistake,” says the professor.  “He would not dare to approach a young, innocent girl.  The most honorable proposal such a man as he could make to her would be basely dishonorable.”

“Ah! you see it in that light too,” says Hardinge, with a touch of relief.  “My dear fellow, it is hard for me to discuss him with you, but yet I fear it must be done.  Did you notice nothing in his manner last night?”

Yes, the professor had noticed something.  Now there comes back to him that tall figure stooping over Perpetua, the handsome, leering face bent low—­the girl’s instinctive withdrawal.

“Something must be done,” says he.

“Yes.  And quickly.  Young girls are sometimes dazzled by men of his sort.  And Per—­Miss Wynter—­ Look here, Curzon,” breaking off hurriedly.  “This is your affair, you know.  You are her guardian.  You should see to it.”

“I could speak to her.”

“That would be fatal.  She is just the sort of girl to say ‘Yes’ to him because she was told to say ‘No.’”

“You seem to have studied her,” says the professor quietly.

“Well, I confess I have seen a good deal of her of late.”

“And to some purpose.  Your knowledge of her should lead you to making a way out of this difficulty.”

“I have thought of one,” says Hardinge boldly, yet with a quick flush.  “You are her guardian.  Why not arrange another marriage for her, before this affair with Sir Hastings goes too far?”

“There are two parties to a marriage,” says the professor, his tone always very low.  “Who is it to whom you propose to marry Miss Wynter?”

Hardinge, getting up, moves abruptly to the window and back again.

“You have known me a long time, Curzon,” says he at last.  “You—­you have been my friend.  I have family—­position—­money—­I——­”

“I am to understand then, that you are a candidate for the hand of my ward,” says the professor, slowly, so slowly that it might suggest itself to a disinterested listener that he has great difficulty in speaking at all.

“Yes,” says Hardinge, very diffidently.  He looks appealingly at the professor.  “I know perfectly well she might do a great deal better,” says he, with a modesty that sits very charmingly upon him.  “But if it comes to a choice between me and your brother, I—­I think I am the better man.  By Jove, Curzon,” growing hot, “it’s awfully rude of me, I know, but it is so hard to remember that he is your brother.”