"But—you shouldn't—you really should not. I feel certain you ought not," says the professor, growing vaguer every moment.
"Ought I not?" with a quick little laugh that is all anger and no mirth. "I do though, for all that! I"—pausing, and regarding him with a somewhat tragic air that sits most funnily upon her—"am not going to stay here much longer!"
"What!" says the professor aghast. "But my dear—— Miss Wynter, I'm afraid you must."
"Why? What is she to me?"
"Your aunt."
"That's nothing—nothing at all—even a guardian is better than that. And you are my guardian. Why," coming closer to him and pressing five soft little fingers in an almost feverish fashion upon his arm, "why can't you take me away?"
"I?"
"Yes, yes, you." She comes even nearer to him, and the pressure of the small fingers grows more eager—there is something in them that might well be termed coaxing. "Do," says she.
"Oh! Impossible!" says the professor. The color mounts to his brow. He almost shakes off the little clinging fingers in his astonishment and agitation. Has she no common sense—no knowledge of the things that be?
She has drawn back from him and is regarding him somewhat strangely.