"I did not say she had a temper."
Hardinge has risen to get himself some whisky and soda, but pauses to pat the professor affectionately on the back.
"Of course not! Don't I know you? You would die first! She might worry your life out, and still you would rise up to defend her at every corner. You should get her a satisfactory home as soon as you can—it would ease your mind; and, after all, as she knows no one here, she is bound to behave herself until you can come to her help."
"She would behave herself, as you call it," says the professor angrily, "any and everywhere. She is a lady. She has been well brought up. I am her guardian, she will do nothing without my permission!"
"Won't she!"
A sound, outside the door strikes on the ears of both men at this moment. It is a most peculiar sound, as it were the rattle of beads against wood.
"What's that?" said Hardinge. "Everett" (the man in the rooms below,) "is out, I know."
"It's coming here," says the professor.
It is, indeed! The door is opened in a tumultuous fashion, there is a rustle of silken skirts, and there—there, where the gas-light falls full on her from both room and landing—stands Perpetua!
The professor has risen to his feet. His face is deadly white. Mr. Hardinge has risen too.