Perpetua, having idly plucked a few last pansies, looked at them, and as idly flung them away, goes on her listless way through the gardens. A whole long month, and not one word from him! Are his social duties now so numerous that he has forgotten he has a ward? "Well," emphatically, and with a vicious little tug at her big white hat, "some people have strange views about duty."
She has almost reached the summer-house, vine-clad, and temptingly cool in all this heat, when a quick step behind her causes her to turn.
"They told me you were here," says the professor, coming up with her. He is so distinctly the professor still, in spite of his new mourning, and the better cut of his clothes, and the general air of having been severely looked after—that Perpetua feels at home with him at once.
"I have been here for some time," says she calmly. "A whole month, isn't it?"
"Yes, I know. Were you going into that green little place. It looks cool."
It is cool, and particularly empty. One small seat occupies the back of it, and nothing else at all, except the professor and his ward.
"Perpetua!" says he, turning to her. His tone is low, impassioned. "I have come. I could not come sooner, and I would not write. How could I put it all on paper? You remember that last evening?"
"I remember," says she faintly.
"And all you said?"
"All you said."