"I have thought of one," says Hardinge boldly, yet with a quick flush.
"You are her guardian. Why not arrange another marriage for her, before
this affair with Sir Hastings goes too far."

"There are two parties to a marriage," says the professor, his tone
always very low. "Who is it to whom you propose to marry Miss Wynter?"

Hardinge, getting up, moves abruptly to the window and back again.

"You have known me a long time, Curzon," says he at last. "You--you have
been my friend. I have family--position--money--I----"

"I am to understand, then, that _you_ are a candidate for the hand of my
ward," says the professor slowly, so slowly that it might suggest itself
to a disinterested listener that he has great difficulty in speaking at
all.

"Yes," says Hardinge, very diffidently. He looks appealingly at the
professor. "I know perfectly well she might do a great deal better,"
says he, with a modesty that sits very charmingly upon him. "But if it
comes to a choice between me and your brother, I--I think I am the
better man. By Jove, Curzon," growing hot, "it's awfully rude of me, I
know, but it is so hard to remember that he _is_ your brother."

But the professor does not seem offended. He seems, indeed, so entirely
unimpressed by Hardinge's last remark, that it may reasonably be
supposed he hasn't heard a word of it.

"And she?" says he. "Perpetua. Does she----" He hesitates as if finding
it impossible to go on.

"Oh! I don't know," says the younger man, with a rather rueful smile.
"Sometimes I think she doesn't care for me more than she does for the
veriest stranger amongst her acquaintances, and sometimes----"
expressive pause.

"Yes? Sometimes?"

"She has seemed kind."

"Kind? How kind?"

"Well--friendly. More friendly than she is to others. Last night she let
me sit out three waltzes with her, and, she only sat out one with your
brother."

"Is it?" asks the professor, in a dull, monotonous sort of way. "Is
it--I am not much in your or her world, you know--is it a very marked
thing for a girl to sit out three waltzes with one man?"

"Oh, no. Nothing very special. I have known girls do it often, but she
is not like other girls, is she?"

The professor waves this question aside.

"Keep to the point," says he.

"Well, _she_ is the point, isn't she? And look here, Curzon, why aren't
you of our world? It is your own fault surely; when one sees your
sister, your brother, and--and _this_," with a slight