"Worse than mine.

And yet," still laughing, "it suits him, I think." Hardinge laughs with her.

Not _at_ his friend, but _with_ her.

It seems clear to him that Perpetua is making gentle fun of her guardian, and though his conscience smites him for encouraging her in her naughtiness, still he cannot refrain.
"He is an awfully good old fellow," says he, throwing a sop to his Cerberus.
"Is he ?" says Perpetua, as if even _more_ amused.

She looks up at him, and then down again, and trifles with the fan she has taken back from him, and finally laughs again; something in her laugh this time, however, puzzles him.
"You don't like him ?" hazards he.