"Love, like a June rose, Buds and sweetly blows-- But tears its leaves disclose, And among thorns it grows."
The professor had been standing inside the curtain for a full minute before Perpetua had seen him. Spell-bound he had stood there, gazing at the girl as if bewitched. Up to this he had seen her only in black--black always--severe, cold--but _now_!
It is to him as though he had seen her for the first time. The graceful curves of her neck, her snowy arms, the dead white of the gown against the whiter glory of the soft bosom, the large, dark eyes so full of feeling, the little dainty head! Are they _all_ new--or some sweet, fresher memory of a picture well beloved?
Then he had seen his brother!--Hastings--the disgrace, the _roué_ ... and bending over _her_!... There had been that little movement, and the girl's calm drawing back, and----
The professor's step forward at that moment had betrayed him to Perpetua.
She rises now, letting her fan fall without thought to the ground.
"You!" cries she, in a little, soft, quick way. "_You!_" Indeed it seems to her impossible that it can be he.
She almost runs to him. If she had quite understood Sir Hastings is impossible to know, for no one has ever asked her since, but certainly the advent of her guardian is a relief to her.
"You!" she says again, as if only half believing. Her gaze grows bewildered. If he had never seen her in anything but black before, she had never seen him in ought but rather antiquated morning clothes. Is this really the professor? Her eyes ask the question anxiously. This tall, aristocratic, perfectly-appointed man; this man who looks positively _young_. Where are the glasses that until now hid his eyes? Where is that old, old coat?
"Yes." Yes, the professor certainly and as disagreeable as possible. His eyes are still aflame; but Perpetua is not afraid of him. She is angry with him, in a measure, but not afraid. One _might_ be afraid of Sir Hastings, but of Mr. Curzon, no!
The professor had seen the glad rush of the girl towards him, and a terrible pang of delight had run through all his veins--to be followed by a reaction. She had come to him because she _wanted_ him, because he might be of use to her, not because.... What had Hastings been saying to her? His wrathful eyes are on his brother rather than on her when he says: