rlorn. He has forgotten youth for many days, has youth
in revenge forgotten him?

"That is taking off a clear hundred all at once," says she lightly. "No
small amount." Here, as if noticing his silence, she looks quickly at
him, and perhaps something in his face strikes her, because she goes on
hurriedly. "Oh! and what is age after all? I wish _I_ were old, and then
I should be able to get away from Aunt Jane--without--without any
_trouble_."

"I am afraid you are indeed very unhappy here," says the professor
gravely.

"I _hate_ the place," cries she with a frown. "I shan't be able to stay
here. Oh! _why_ didn't poor papa send me to live with you?"

Why indeed? That is exactly what the professor finds great difficulty in
explaining to her. An "old man" of "fifty" might very easily give a home
to a young girl, without comment from the world. But then if an "old man
of fifty" _wasn't_ an old man of fifty----The professor checks his
thoughts, they are growing too mixed.

"We should have been _so_ happy," Perpetua is going on, her tone
regretful. "We could have gone everywhere together, you and I. I should
have taken you to the theatre, to balls, to concerts, to afternoons. You
would have been _so_ happy, and so should I. You would--wouldn't you?"

The professor nods his head. The awful vista she has opened up to him
has completely deprived him of speech.

"Ah! yes," sighs she, taking that deceitful nod in perfect good faith.
"And you would have been good to me too, and let me look in at the shop
windows. I should have taken such _care_ of you, and made your tea for
you, just," sadly, "as I used to do for poor papa, and----"

It is becoming too much for the professor.

"It is late. I must go," says he.

* * * * *

It is a week later when he meets her again. The season is now at its
height, and some stray wave of life casting the professor into a
fashionable thoroughfare, he there finds he.

Marching along, as usual, with his head in the air, and his thoughts in
the ages when dates were unknown, a soft, eager voice calling his name
brings him back to the fact that he is walking up Bond Street.

In a carriage, exceedingly well appointed, and with her face wreathed in
smiles, and one hand impulsively extended, sits Perpetua. Evidently the
owner of the carriage is in the shop making purchases, whilst Perpetua
sits without, awaiting her.

"Were you going to cut me?" cries she. "Wha