about 'knowledge'--don't bother
me about that any more. It's a little rude of you, do you know? One
would think I was a dunce--that I knew nothing--whereas, I assure you,"
throwing out her other hand, "I know _quite_ as much as most girls, and
a great deal more than many. I daresay," putting her head to one side,
and examining him thoughtfully, "I know more than you do if it comes to
that. I don't believe you know this moment who wrote 'The Master of
Ballantrae.' Come now, who was it?"

She leans back from him, gazing at him mischievously, as if anticipating
his defeat. As for the professor, he grows red--he draws his brows
together. Truly this is a most impertinent pupil! 'The Master of
Ballantrae.' It _sounds_ like Sir Walter, and yet--The professor
hesitates and is lost.

"Scott," says he, with as good an air as he can command.

"Wrong," cries she, clapping her hands softly, noiselessly. "Oh! you
_ignorant_ man! Go buy that book at once. It will do you more good and
teach you a great deal more than any of your musty tomes."

She laughs gaily. It occurs to the professor, in a misty sort of way,
that her laugh, at all events, would do _anyone_ good.

She has been pulling a ring on and off her finger unconsciously, as if
thinking, but now looks up at him.

"If you spoke to her again, when she was in a better temper, don't you
think she would let you take me to the theatre some night?" She has come
nearer, and has laid a light, appealing little hand upon his arm.

"I am sure it would be useless," says he, taking off his glasses and
putting them on again in an anxious fashion. They are both speaking in
whispers, and the professor is conscious of feeling a strange sort of
pleasure in the thought that he is sharing a secret with her. "Besides,"
says he, "I couldn't very well come here again."

"Not come again? Why?"

"I'd be afraid," returns he simply. Whereon Miss Wynter, after a
second's pause, gives way and laughs "consumedly," as they would have
said long, long years before her pretty features saw the light.

"Ah! yes," murmurs she. "How she did frighten you. She brought you to
your knees--you actually"--this with keen reproach--"took her part
against me."

"I took her part to _help_ you;" says the professor, feeling absurdly
miserable.

"Yes," sighing, "I daresay. But though I know I should have suffered for
it afterwards, it would have done me a world of good to hear somebody
tell her his real opinion