Why not call Thursday--or even Wednesday? Wednesday let it be. He needn't call every week, but he had said something about calling next week, and--she wouldn't care, of course--but one should keep their word. What a strange little face she has--and strange manners, and--not able to get on evidently with her present surroundings. What an old devil that aunt must be! CHAPTER IV. "Dear, if you knew what tears they shed, Who live apart from home and friend, To pass my house, by pity led, Your steps would tend." He makes the acquaintance of the latter very shortly. But requires no spoon to sup with her, as Miss Majendie's invitations to supper, or indeed to luncheon, breakfast or dinner, are so few and rare that it might be rash for a hungry man to count on them. The professor, who has felt it to be his duty to call on his ward regularly every week, has learned to know and (I regret to say) to loathe that estimable spinster christened Jane Majendie. After every visit to her house he has sworn to himself that _"this one"_ shall be his last, and every Wednesday following he has gone again. Indeed, to-day being Wednesday in the heart of June, he may be seen sitting bolt upright in a hansom on his way to the unlovely house that holds Miss Majendie. As he enters the dismal drawing-room, where he finds Miss Majendie and her niece, it becomes plain, even to his inexperienced brain, that there has just been a row on, somewhere. Perpetua is sitting on a distant lounge, her small vivacious face one thunder-cloud. Miss Majendie, sitting on the hardest chair this hideous room contains, is smiling. A terrible sign. The professor pales before it. "I am glad to see you, Mr. Curzon," says Miss Majendie, rising and extending a bony hand. "As Perpetua's guardian, you may perhaps have some influence over her. I say 'perhaps' advisedly, as I scarcely dare to hope _anyone_ could influence a mind so distorted as hers." "What is it?" asks the professor nervously--of Perpetua, not of Miss Majendie. "I'm dull," says Perpetua sullenly. The professor glances keenly at the girl's downcast face, and then at Miss Majendie. The latter glance is a question. "You hear her," says Miss Majendie coldly--she draws her shawl round her meagre shoulders, and a breath through her lean nostrils that may be heard. "Perhaps _you_ may be able to discover her meaning." "What is it?" asks the professor, turning to the girl, his tone anxious, uncertain. Young women with "wrongs" are unknown to him, as are all other sorts of young women for the matter of that. And _this_ particular young woman looks a little unsafe at the present moment. "I have told you! I am tired of this life. I am dull--stupid. I want to go out." Her lovely eyes are flashing, her face is white--her lips trembling. _"Take_ me out," says she suddenly. "Perpetua!" exclaims Miss Majendie. "How unmaidenly! How immodest!" Perpetua looks at her with large, surprised eyes. "Why," says she.