Breakfast was a nightmare, lunch was rather worse, and as for dinner, it was quite unspeakable. Miss Beezley seemed to gather force during the day. It was not the actual presence of the lady that revolted the Babe, for that was passable enough. It was her conversation that killed. She refused to let the Babe alone. She was intensely learned herself, and seemed to take a morbid delight in dissecting his ignorance, and showing everybody the pieces. Also, she persisted in calling him Mr MacArthur in a way that seemed somehow to point out and emphasize his youthfulness. She added it to her remarks as a sort of after-thought or echo. 'Do you read Browning, Mr MacArthur?' she would say suddenly, having apparently waited carefully until she saw that his mouth was full. The Babe would swallow convulsively, choke, blush, and finally say-- 'No, not much.' 'Ah!' This in a tone of pity not untinged with scorn. 'When you say "not much", Mr MacArthur, what exactly do you mean? Have you read any of his poems?' 'Oh, yes, one or two.' 'Ah! Have you read "Pippa Passes"?' 'No, I think not.' 'Surely you must know, Mr MacArthur, whether you have or not. Have you read "Fifine at the Fair"?' 'No.' 'Have you read "Sordello"?' 'No.' 'What _have_ you read, Mr MacArthur?' Brought to bay in this fashion, he would have to admit that he had read 'The Pied Piper of Hamelin', and not a syllable more, and Miss Beezley would look at him for a moment and sigh softly. The Babe's subsequent share in the conversation, provided the Dragon made no further onslaught, was not large. One never-to-be-forgotten day, shortly before the end of her visit, a series of horrible accidents resulted in their being left to lunch together alone. The Babe had received no previous warning, and when he was suddenly confronted with this terrible state of affairs he almost swooned. The lady's steady and critical inspection of his style of carving a chicken completed his downfall. His previous experience of carving had been limited to those entertainments which went by the name of 'study-gorges', where, if you wanted to help a chicken, you took hold of one leg, invited an accomplice to attach himself to the other, and pulled. But, though unskilful, he was plucky and energetic. He lofted the bird out of the dish on to the tablecloth twice in the first minute. Stifling a mad inclination to call out 'Fore!' or something to that effect, he laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh, and replaced the errant fowl. When a third attack ended in the same way, Miss Beezley asked permission to try what she could do. She tried, and in two minutes the chicken was neatly dismembered. The Babe re-seated himself in an over-wrought state. 'Tell me about St Austin's, Mr MacArthur,' said Miss Beezley, as the Babe was trying to think of something to say--not about the weather. 'Do you play football?' 'Yes.' 'Ah!' A prolonged silence. 'Do you--' began the Babe at last.