“Still—­if you would permit me to name this one,” begins Curzon, very humbly, “it can do you no harm to hear of him.  And it all lies in your own power.  You can, if you will, say yes, or——­“.  He pauses.  The pause is eloquent, and full of deep entreaty.

“Or no,” supplies she calmly.  “True!  You,” with a half defiant, half saucy glance, “are beginning to learn that a guardian cannot control one altogether.”

“I don’t think I ever controlled you, Perpetua.”

“N—­o!  Perhaps not.  But then you tried to.  That’s worse.”

“Do you forbid me then to lay before you—­this name—­that I——?”

“I have told you,” says she, “that I can find a name for myself.”

“You forbid me to speak,” says he slowly.

"I forbid!  A ward forbid her guardian!  I should be afraid!” says she, with an extremely naughty little glance at him.

“You trifle with me,” says the professor slowly, a little sternly, and with uncontrolled despair.  “I thought—­I believed—­I was mad enough to imagine, from your manner to me that last night we met, that I was something more than a mere guardian to you.”

“More than that. That seems to be a Herculean relation.  What more would you be?”

“I am no longer that, at all events.”

“What!” cries she, flushing deeply.  “You—­you give me up——­”

“It is you who give me up.”

“You say you will no longer be my guardian!” She seems struck with amazement at this declaration on his part.  She had not believed him when he had before spoken of his intention of resigning.  “But you cannot,” says she.  “You have promised.  Papa said you were to take care of me.”

“Your father did not know.”

“He did. He said you were the one man in all the world he could trust.”

“Impossible,” says the professor.  “A—­lover—­cannot be a guardian!” His voice has sunk to a whisper.  He turns away, and makes a step towards the door.

“You are going,” cries she, fighting with a desperate desire for tears, that is still strongly allied to anger.  “You would leave me.  You will be no longer my guardian.  Ah! was I not right?  Did I not tell you you were in a hurry to get rid of me?”

This most unfair accusation rouses the professor to extreme wrath.  He turns round and faces her like an enraged lion.

“You are a child,” says he, in a tone sufficient to make any woman resentful.  “It is folly to argue with you.”

“A child!  What are you then?” cries she tremulously.

“A fool!" furiously.  “I was given my cue, I would not take it.  You told me that it was bad enough to be your ward, that you would not on any account be closer to me. That should have been clear to me, yet, like an idiot, I hoped against hope.  I took false courage from each smile of yours, each glance, each word.  There!  Once I leave you now, the chain between us will be broken, we shall never, with my will, meet again.  You say you have had suitors since you came down here.  You hinted to me that you could mention the name of him you wished to marry.  So be it.  Mention it to Gwendoline—­to any one you like, but not to me.”