"You want me to deny it then?"
"Oh no, no!" she throws out one hand with a little gesture of mingled anger and regret. "Do you think I want you to lie to me? There I am wrong. After all," with a half smile, sadder than most sad smiles because of the youth and sweetness of it, "I do not blame you. I am a trouble, I suppose, and all troubles are hateful. I"—holding out her hand—"shall take your advice, I think, and go to bed."
"It was bad advice," says Curzon, taking the hand and holding it.
"Stay up, enjoy yourself, dance——"
"Oh! I am not dancing," says she as if offended.
"Why not?" eagerly. "Better dance than sleep at your age. You—you mistook me. Why go so soon?"
She looks at him with a little whimsical expression.
"I shall not know you at all, presently," says she. "Your very appearance to-night is strange to me, and now your sentiments! No, I shall not be swayed by you. Good-night, good-bye!" She smiles at him in the same sorrowful little way, and takes a step or two forward.
"Perpetua," says the professor sternly, "before you go, you must listen to me. You said just now you would not hear me lie to you—you shall hear only the truth. Whoever told you that I hated you is the most unmitigated liar on record!"
Perpetua rubs her fan up and down against her cheek for a little bit.
"Well—I'm glad you don't hate me," says she, "but still I'm a worry. Never mind,"—sighing—"I daresay I shan't be so for long."