“The house of everyone is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence as for his repose.”

“She’s upstairs still,” cries he in a frenzied tone.  “She says she has come for ever. That she will not go away.  She doesn’t understand.  Great Heaven! what am I to do?”

“She?” says Hardinge, who really in turn grows petrified for the moment—­only for the moment.

“That girl!  My ward!  All women are demons!" says the professor bitterly, with tragic force.  He pauses as if exhausted.

"Your demon is a pretty specimen of her kind,” says Hardinge, a little frivolously under the circumstances it must be confessed.  “Where is she now?”

“Upstairs!” with a groan.  “She says she’s hungry, and I haven’t a thing in the house!  For goodness sake think of something, Hardinge.”

“Mrs. Mulcahy!” suggests Hardinge, in anything but a hopeful tone.

“Yes—­ye-es,” says the professor.  “You—­you wouldn’t ask her 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 prey 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 is 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 the 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 heart.  It is—­it must be—­the Mulcahy!