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_ 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 his 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 breast. It is--it _must_ be--the Mulcahy! And Mrs. Mulcahy it is! Without waiting for an answer, that virtuous Irishwoman, clad in righteous indignation and a snuff-colored gown, marches into the room. "May I ask, Mr. Curzon," says she, with great dignity and more temper, "what may be the meanin' of all this?" The professor's tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, but Perpetua's tongue remains normal. She jumps up, and runs to Mrs. Mulcahy with a beaming face. She has had something to eat, and is once again her own buoyant, wayward, light-hearted little self. "Oh! it is all right _now_, Mrs. Mulcahy," cries she, whilst the professor grows cold with horror at this audacious advance upon the militant Mulcahy. "But do you know, he said first he hadn't anything to give me, and I was starving. No, you mustn't scold him--he didn't mean anything. I suppose you have heard how unhappy I was with Aunt Jane?--he's told you, I daresay,"--with a little flinging of her hand towards the trembling professor--"because I know"--prettily--"he is very fond of you--he often speaks to me about you. Oh! Aunt Jane is _horrid_! I _should_ have told you about how it was when I came, but I wanted so much to see my guardian, and tell _him_ all about it, that I forgot to be nice to anybody. See?" There is a little silence. The professor, who is looking as guilty as if the whole ten commandments have been broken by him at once, waits, shivering, for the outburst that is so sure to come. It doesn't come, however! When the mists clear away a little, he finds that Perpetua has gone over to where Mrs. Mulcahy is standing, and is talking still to that good Irishwoman. It is a whispered talk this time, and the few words of it that he catches go to his very heart.