"Perpetua!" exclaims he, almost inarticulately, "you don't understand."
"I do indeed," returns she brightly. "I've often settled papa's den. What! do you think me only a silly useless creature? You shall see! I'll settle you too, by and by." She smiles at him gaily, with the most charming innocence, but oh! what awful probabilities lie within her words. Settle him!
"Do you know I've heard people talking about you at Mrs. Constans'," says she. She smiles and nods at him. The professor groans. To be talked about! To be discussed! To be held up to vulgar comment! He writhes inwardly. The thought is actual torture to him.
"They said——"
"What?" demands the professor, almost fiercely. How dare a feeble feminine audience appreciate or condemn his honest efforts to enlighten his small section of mankind!
"That you ought to be married," says Perpetua, sympathetically. "And they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn't ever be now; but that it was a great pity you hadn't a daughter. I think that too. Not about your having a wife. That doesn't matter, but I really think you ought to have a daughter to look after you."
This extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile.
"I'll be your daughter," says she.
The professor goes rigid with horror. What has he done that the Fates should so visit him?
"They said something else too," goes on Perpetua, this time rather angrily. "They said you were so clever that you always looked unkempt. That," thoughtfully, "means that you didn't brush your hair enough. Never mind, I'll brush it for you."