rd.

"Perpetua," says the professor sternly, "before you go you must listen
to me. You said just now you would not hear me lie to you--you shall
hear only the truth. Whoever told you that I hated you is the most
unmitigated liar on record!"

Perpetua rubs her fan up and down against her cheek for a little bit.

"Well--I'm glad you don't hate me," says she, "but still I'm a worry.
Never mind,"--sighing--"I daresay I shan't be so for long."

"You mean?" asks the professor anxiously.

"Nothing--nothing at all. Good-night. Good-night, _indeed_."

"Must you go? Is enjoyment nothing to you?"

"Ah! you have killed all that for me," says she. This parting shaft she
hurls at him--_malice prepense_. It is effectual. By it she murders
sleep as thoroughly as ever did Macbeth. The professor spends the
remainder of the night pacing up and down his rooms.

CHAPTER XIII.

"Through thick and thin, both over bank and bush,
In hopes her to attain by hook or crook.

"You will begin to think me a fixture," says Hardinge with a somewhat
embarrassed laugh, flinging himself into an armchair.

"You know you are always welcome," says the professor gently, if
somewhat absently.

It is next morning, and he looks decidedly the worse for his
sleeplessness. His face seems really old, his eyes are sunk in his head.
The breakfast lying untouched upon the table tells its own tale.

"Dissipation doesn't agree with you," says Hardinge with a faint smile.

"No. I shall give it up," returns Curzon, his laugh a trifle grim.

"I was never more surprised in my life than when I saw you at your
sister's last evening. I was relieved, too--sometimes it is necessary
for a man to go out, and--and see how things are going on with his own
eyes."

"I wonder when that would be?" asks the professor indifferently.

"When a man is a guardian," replies Hardinge promptly, and with evident
meaning.

The professor glances quickly at him.

"You mean----?" says he.

"Oh! yes, of course I mean something," says Hardinge impatiently. "But I
don't suppose you want me to explain myself. You were there last
night--you must have seen for yourself."

"Seen what?"

"Pshaw!" says Hardinge, throwing up his head, and flinging his cigarette
into the empty fireplace. "I saw you go into the conservatory. You found
her there, and--_him_. It is beginning to be the chief topic of
conversation amongst his friends just now. The betting is already pretty