“Ah! you beg the question,” says he, “but I’m not so sure I shall obey you for all that.”

“Perpetua!  Do not speak to me like that, I implore you,” says the professor, very pale.  “Do you think I am not saying all this for your good?  Sir Hastings—­he is my brother—­it is hard for me to explain myself, but he will not make you happy.”

“Happy! You think of my happiness?”

“Of what else?” A strange yearning look comes into his eyes.  “God knows it is all I think of,” says he.

“And so you would marry me to Mr. Hardinge?”

“Hardinge is a good man, and—­he loves you.”

“If so, he is the only one on earth who does,” cries the girl bitterly.  She turns abruptly away, and struggles with herself for a moment, then looks back at him.  “Well, I shall not marry him,” says she.

“That is in your own hands,” says the professor.  “But I shall have something to say about the other proposal you speak of.”

“Do you think I want to marry your brother?” says she.  “I tell you no, no, no! A thousand times no!  The very fact that he is your brother would prevent me.  To be you ward is bad enough, to be your sister-in-law would be insufferable.  For all the world I would not be more to you than I am now.”

“It is a wise decision,” says the professor icily.  He feels smitten to his very heart’s core.  Had he ever dreamed of a nearer, dearer tie between them?—­if so the dream is broken now.

“Decision?” stammers she.

“Not to marry my brother.”

“Not to be more to you, you mean!”

“You don’t know what you are saying,” says the professor, driven beyond his self-control.  “You are a mere child, a baby, you speak at random.”

“What!” cries she, flashing round at him, “will you deny that I have been a trouble to you, that you would have been thankful had you never heard my name?”

“You are right,” gravely.  “I deny nothing.  I wish with all my soul I had never heard your name.  I confess you have troubled me.  I go beyond even that, I declare that you have been my undoing!  And now, let us make an end of it.  I am a poor man and a busy one, this task your father laid upon my shoulders is too heavy for me.  I shall resign my guardianship; Gwendoline—­Lady Baring—­will accept the position.  She likes you, and—­you will find it hard to break her heart.”

“Do you mean,” says the girl, “that I have broken yours? Yours? Have I been so bad as that?  Yours?  I have been wilful, I know, and troublesome, but troublesome people do not break one’s heart.  What have I done then that yours should be broken?” She has moved closer to him.  Her eyes are gazing with passionate question into his.

“Do not think of that,” says the professor, unsteadily.  “Do not let that trouble you.  As I just now told you, I am a poor man, and poor men cannot afford such luxuries as hearts.”