“Not a mummy, I trust,” says she, a little flippantly.

“A proposal,” says the professor, coldly.  “Much as I know you dislike the idea, still, it was your poor father’s wish that I should, in a measure, regulate your life until your coming of age.  I am here to-day to let you know—­that—­Mr. Hardinge has requested me to tell you that he——­”

The professor pauses, feeling that he is failing miserably.  He, the fluent speaker at lectures, and on public platforms, is now bereft of the power to explain one small situation.

“What’s the matter with Mr. Hardinge,” asks Perpetua, “that he can’t come here himself?  Nothing serious, I hope?”

“I am your guardian,” says the professor—­unfortunately, with all the air of one profoundly sorry for the fact declared, “and he wishes me to tell you that he—­is desirous of marrying you.”

Perpetua stares at him.  Whatever bitter thoughts are in her mind, she conceals them.

“He is a most thoughtful young man,” says she, blandly.  “And—­and you’re another.”

“I hope I am thoughtful, if I am not young,” says the professor, with dignity.  Her manner puzzles him.  “With regard to Hardinge, I wish you to know that—­that I—­have known him for years, and that he is in my opinion a strictly honorable, kind-hearted man.  He is of good family.  He has money.  He will probably succeed to a baronetcy—­though this is not certain, as his uncle is, comparatively speaking, young still.  But even without the title, Hardinge is a man worthy of any woman’s esteem, and confidence, and——­”

He is interrupted by Miss Wynter’s giving way to a sudden burst of mirth.  It is mirth of the very angriest, but it checks him the more effectually because of that.

“You must place great confidence in princes!” says she.  “Even ’without the title, he is worthy of esteem.’” She copies him audaciously.  “What has a title got to do with esteem?—­and what has esteem got to do with love?”

“I should hope——­” begins the professor.

“You needn’t.  It has nothing to do with it, nothing at all. Go back and tell Mr. Hardinge so; and tell him, too, that when next he goes a-wooing, he had better do it in person.”

“I am afraid I have damaged my mission,” says the professor, who has never once looked at her since his first swift glance.

"Your mission?”

“Yes.  It was mere nervousness that prevented him coming to you first himself.  He said he had little to go on, and he said something about a flower that you gave him——­”

Perpetua makes a rapid movement toward a side table, takes a flower from a bouquet there, and throws it at the professor.  There is no excuse to be made for her beyond the fact that her heart feels breaking, and people with broken hearts do strange things every day.

“I would give a flower to anyone!" says she in a quick scornful fashion.  The professor catches the ungraciously given gift, toys with it, and—­keeps it.  Is that small action of his unseen?