Miss Wynter puts that glance behind her, and perhaps there is something—something a little dangerous in the soft, soft look she now turns upon him.
"He thinks so, too, of course?" says she, ever so gently. Her tone is half a question, half an assertion. It is manifestly unfair, the whole thing. Hardinge, believing in her tone, her smile, falls into the trap. Mindful of that night when the professor in despair at her untimely descent upon him, had said many things unmeant, he answers her.
"Hardly that. But——"
"Go on."
"There was a little word or two, you know," laughing.
"A hint?" laughing too, but how strangely! "Yes? And——?"
"Oh! a mere hint! The professor is too loyal to go beyond that. I suppose you know you have the best man in all the world for your guardian? But it was a little unkind of your people, was it not, to give you into the keeping of a confirmed bookworm—a savant—with scarcely a thought beyond his studies?"
"He could study me!" says she. "I should be a fresh specimen."
"A rara avis, indeed! but not such as the professor's soul covets. No, believe me, you are as dust before the wind in his learned eye."
"You think then—that I—am a trouble to him?"