"Sure to," said Hardinge, with quite a touch of enthusiasm. "'To see her is to love her, and love but'----" "That is of no consequence where anyone is concerned except Lady Baring," says the professor, with a little twist in his chair, "and my sister has not seen her as yet. And besides, that is not the only question--a greater one remains." "By Jove! you don't say so! What?" demands Mr. Hardinge, growing earnest. "Will Miss Wynter like _her?"_ says the professor. "That is the real point." "Oh! I see!" says Hardinge thoughtfully. The next day, however, proves the professor's fears vain in both quarters. An early visit to Lady Baring, and an anxious appeal, brings out all that delightful woman's best qualities. One stipulation alone she makes, that she may see the young heiress before finally committing herself to chaperone her safely through the remainder of the season. The professor, filled with hope, hies back to his rooms, calls for Mrs. Mulcahy, tells her he is going to take his ward out for a drive, and gives that worthy and now intensely interested landlady full directions to see that Miss Wynter looks--"er--nice! you know, Mrs. Mulcahy, her _best_ suit, and----" Mrs. Mulcahy came generously to the rescue. "Her best frock, sir, I suppose, an' her Sunday bonnet. I've often wished it before, Mr. Curzon, an' I'm thinkin' that 'twill be the makin' of ye; an' a handsome, purty little crathur she is an' no mistake. An' who is to give away the poor dear, sir, askin' yer pardon?" "I am," says the professor. "Oh no, sir; the likes was never known. 'Tis the father or one of his belongings as gives away the bride, _niver_ the husband to be, an' if ye _have_ nobody, sir, you two, why I'm sure I'd be proud to act for ye in this matther. Faix I don't disguise from ye, Misther Curzon, dear, that I feels like a mother to that purty child this moment, an' I tell ye _this,_ that if ye don't behave dacent to her, ye'll have to answer to Mrs. Mulcahy for that same." "What d'ye mean, woman?" roars the professor, indignantly. "Do you imagine that _--_--?" "No. I'd belave nothin' bad o' ye," says Mrs. Mulcahy solemnly. "I've cared ye these six years, an' niver a fault to find. But that child beyant, whin ye take her away to make her yer wife----" "You must be mad," says the professor, a strange, curious pang contracting his heart. "I am not taking her away to---- I--I am taking her to my sister, who will receive her as a guest." "Mad!" repeats Mrs. Mulcahy furiously. "Who's mad? Faix," preparing to leave the room, "'tis yerself was born widout a grain o' sinse!"