"Yes--ye-es," says the professor. "You--_you_ wouldn't ask her for
something, would you, Hardinge?"

"Not for a good deal," says Hardinge, promptly. "I say," rising, and
going towards Everett's cupboard, "Everett's a Sybarite, you know, of
the worst kind--sure to find something here, and we can square it with
him afterwards. Beauty in distress, you know, appeals to all hearts.
_Here we are!_" holding out at arm's length a pasty. "A 'weal and
ammer!' Take it! The guilt be on my head! Bread--butter--pickled onions!
Oh, _not_ pickled onions, I think. Really, I had no idea even Everett
had fallen so low. Cheese!--about to proceed on a walking tour! The
young lady wouldn't care for that, thanks. Beer! No. _No._
Sherry-Woine!"

"Give me that pie, and the bread and butter," says the professor, in
great wrath. "And let me tell you, Hardinge, that there are occasions
when one's high spirits can degenerate into offensiveness and
vulgarity!"

He marches out of the room and upstairs, leaving Hardinge, let us hope,
a pray to remorse. It is true, at least of that young man, that he
covers his face with his hands and sways from side to side, as if
overcome by some secret emotion. Grief--no-doubt.

Perpetua is graciously pleased to accept the frugal meal the professor
brings her. She even goes so far as to ask him to share it with
her--which invitation he declines. He is indeed sick at heart--not for
himself--(the professor doesn't often think of himself)--but for her.
And where is she to sleep? To turn her out now would be impossible!
After all, it was a puerile trifling with the Inevitable, to shirk
asking Mrs. Mulcahy for something to eat for his self-imposed
guest--because the question of _Bed_ still to come! Mrs. Mulcahy,
terrible as she undoubtedly can be, is yet the only woman in the house,
and it is imperative that Perpetua should be given up to her protection.

Whilst the professor is writhing in spirit over this ungetoutable fact,
he becomes aware of a resounding knock at his door. Paralyzed, he gazes
in the direction of the sound. It _can't_ be Hardinge, he would never
knock like that! The knock in itself, indeed, is of such force and
volume as to strike terror into the bravest breast. It is--it _must_
be--the Mulcahy!

And Mrs. Mulcahy it is! Without waiting for an answer, that virtuous
Irishwoman, clad in righteous indignation and a snuff-colored gown,
marches into the room.

"May I ask, Mr. Curzon," says she, w