“That you ought to be married,” says Perpetua, sympathetically.  “And they said, too, that they supposed you wouldn’t ever be now; but that it was a great pity you hadn’t a daughter. I think that too.  Not about your having a wife.  That doesn’t matter, but I really think you ought to have a daughter to look after you.”

This extremely immoral advice she delivers with a beaming smile.

"I’ll be your daughter,” says she.

The professor goes rigid with horror.  What has he done that the Fates should so visit him?

“They said something else too,” goes on Perpetua, this time rather angrily.  “They said you were so clever that you always looked unkempt.  That?” thoughtfully, “means that you didn’t brush your hair enough.  Never mind, I’ll brush it for you.”

“Look here!” says the professor furiously, subdued fury no doubt, but very genuine.  “You must go, you know.  Go, at once! D’ye see?  You can’t stay in this house, d’ye hear? I can’t permit it.  What did your father mean by bringing you up like this!”

“Like what?” She is staring at him.  She has leant forward as if surprised—­and with a sigh the professor acknowledges the uselessness of a fight between them; right or wrong she is sure to win.  He is bound to go to the wall.  She is looking not only surprised, but unnerved.  The ebullition of wrath on the part of her mild guardian has been a slight shock to her.

“Tell me?” persists she.

“Tell you! what is there to tell you?  I should think the veriest infant would have known she oughtn’t to come here.”

“I should think an infant would know nothing,” with dignity.  “All your scientific researches have left you, I’m afraid, very ignorant.  And I should think that the very first thing even an infant would do, if she could walk, would be to go straight to her guardian when in trouble.”

“At this hour?”

“At any hour.  What,” throwing out her hands expressively, “is a guardian for, if it isn’t to take care of people?”

The professor gives it up.  The heat of battle has overcome him.  With a deep breath he drops into a chair, and begins to wonder how long it will be before happy death will overtake him.

But in the meantime, whilst sitting on a milestone of life waiting for that grim friend, what is to be done with her?  If—­Good heavens! if anyone had seen her come in!

“Who opened the door for you?” demands he abruptly.

“A great big fat woman with a queer voice!  Your Mrs. Mulcahy of course.  I remember your telling me about her.”

Mrs. Mulcahy undoubtedly.  Well, the professor wishes now he had told his ward more about her.  Mrs. Mulcahy he can trust, but she—­awful thought—­ will she trust him?  What is she thinking now?

“I said, ‘Is Mr. Curzon at home?’ and she said, ‘Well I niver!’ So I saw she was a kindly, foolish, poor creature with no sense, and I ran past her, and up the stairs, and I looked into one room where there were lights but you weren’t there, and then I ran on again until I saw the light under your door, and, “brightening, “there you were!”