"You wear glasses--a capital disguise! I mean nothing offensive--_so far_--sir, but it behoves me to be careful, and behind those glasses, who can tell what demon lurks?
Nay! No offence! An _innocent_ man would _feel_ no offence!" "Really, Miss Majendie!" begins the poor professor, who is as red as though he were the guiltiest soul alive.
"Let me proceed, sir.

We were talking of the ages of men." _"We ?"_ "Certainly! It was you who suggested the idea that, being so much older than my niece, Miss Wynter, you could therefore escort her here and there--in fact _everywhere_--in fact"-- with awful meaning--_"any_ where!" "I assure you, madam," begins the professor, springing to his feet--Perpetua puts out a white hand.
"Ah! let her talk," says she.

_"Then_ you will understand." "But men's ages, sir, are a snare and a delusion!" continues Miss Majendie, who has now mounted her hobby, and will ride it to the death.

"Who can tell the age of any man in this degenerate age?
We look at their faces, and say _he_ must be so and so, and _he_ a few years younger, but looks are vain, they tell us nothing.

Some look old, because they _are_ old, some look old--through _vice!"_ The professor makes an impatient gesture.