_"Stop!"_ cries the professor. He uplifts his hands, and, as though in the act of tearing his hair, rushes from the room, and staggers downstairs to those other apartments where Hardinge had elected to sit, and see out the farce, comedy, or tragedy, whichever it may prove, to its bitter end. The professor bursts in like a maniac! CHAPTER VIII. "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.