“You can think it over,” says she most graciously.  “There is no hurry, and I am quite aware that one isn’t made a guardian every day.  Do you think you could make it out whilst I count forty?”

“I think I could make it out more quickly if you didn’t count at all,” says the professor, who is growing warm.  “The duties of a guardian—­are—­er—­to—­er—­to see that one’s ward is comfortable and happy.”

“Then there is a great deal of duty for you to do,” says she solemnly, letting her chin slip into the hollow of her hand.

“I know—­I’m sure of it,” says the professor with a sigh that might be called a groan.  “But your aunt, Miss Majendie—­your mother’s sister—­can——­”

“I don’t believe she is my mother’s sister,” says Miss Wynter calmly.  “I have seen my mother’s picture.  It is lovely!  Aunt Jane was a changeling—­I’m sure of it.  But never mind her.  You were going to say——?”

“That Miss Majendie, who is virtually your guardian—­can explain it all to you much better than I can.”

“Aunt Jane is not my guardian!” The mild look of enquiry changes to one of light anger.  The white brown contracts.  “And certainly she could never make one happy and comfortable.  Well—­what else?”

“She will look after——­”

“I told you I don’t care about Aunt Jane.  Tell me what you can do——­”

“See that your fortune is not——­”

“I don’t care about my fortune either,” with a little petulant gesture.  “But I do care about my happiness.  Will you see to that?”

“Of course,” says the professor gravely.

“Then you will take me away from Aunt Jane!” The small vivacious face is now all aglow.  “I am not happy with Aunt Jane.  I”—­clasping her hands, and letting a quick, vindictive fire light her eyes—­“I hate Aunt Jane.  She says things about poor papa that——­ Oh! how I hate her!”

“But—­you shouldn’t—­you really should not.  I feel certain you ought not,” says the professor, growing vaguer every moment.

“Ought I not?” with a quick little laugh that is all anger and no mirth.  “I do though, for all that!  I”—­pausing, and regarding him with a somewhat tragic air that sits most funnily upon her—­“am not going to stay here much longer!”

"What!" says the professor aghast.  “But my dear——­ Miss Wynter, I’m afraid you must."

“Why?  What is she to me?”

“Your aunt.”

“That’s nothing—­nothing at all—­even a guardian is better than that.  And you are my guardian.  Why,” coming closer to him and pressing five soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon his arm, “why can’t you take me away?”

"I?"

“Yes, yes, you.”  She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of the small fingers grows more eager—­there is something in them that might well be termed coaxing. "Do," says she.