"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?"
"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 glance round the dull little apartment, "one cannot help wondering why you----"
"Let that go by," says the professor. "I have explained it before. I deliberately chose my own way in life, and I want nothing more than I have. You think, then, that last night Miss Wynter gave you--encouragement?"
"Oh! hardly that. And yet--she certainly seemed to like--that is not to _dislike_ my being with her: and once--well,"--confusedly--"that was nothing."
"No, really; and I shouldn't have mentioned it either--not for a moment."
The professor's face changes. The apathy that has lain upon it for the past five minutes now gives way to a touch of fierce despair. He turns aside, as if to hide the tell-tale features, and going to the window, gazes sightlessly on the hot, sunny street below.
What was it--_what_? Shall he ever have the courage to find out? And is this to be the end of it all? In a flash the coming of the girl is present before him, and now, here is her going. Had she--had she--what _was_ it he meant? No wonder if her girlish fancy had fixed itself on this tall, handsome, young man, with his kindly, merry ways and honest meaning. Ah! that was what she meant perhaps when last night she had told him "she would not be a worry to him _long_." Yes, she had meant that; that she was going to marry Hardinge!
But to _know_ what Hardinge means! A torturing vision of a little lovely figure, gowned all in white--of a little lovely face uplifted--of another face down bent! No! a thousand times, no! Hardinge would not speak of that--it would be too sacred; and yet this awful doubt----
"Look here. I'll tell you," says Hardinge's voice at this moment. "After all, you are her guardian--her father almost--though I know you scarcely relish your position; and you ought to know about it, and perhaps you can give me your opinion, too, as to whether there was anything in it, you know. The fact is, I,"--rather shamefacedly--"asked her for a flower out of her bouquet, and she gave it. That was all, and," hurriedly, "I don't really believe she meant anything _by_ giving it, only," with a nervous laugh, "I keep hoping she _did_!"