In this life, however, it is not given us to be happy for long. A
knock at the professor's door brings him back to the present, and
the knowledge that the landlady--a stout, somewhat erratic person of
fifty--is standing on his threshold, a letter in her hand.

"For you, me dear," says she, very kindly, handing the letter to the
professor.

She is perhaps the one person of his acquaintance who has been able
to see through the professor's gravity and find him _young._

"Thank you," says he. He takes the letter indifferently, opens it
languidly, and---- Well, there isn't much languor after the perusal
of it.

The professor sits up; literally this time slang is unknown to him;
and re-reads it. _That girl has come!_ There can't be any doubt of
it. He had almost forgotten her existence during these past tranquil
months, when no word or hint about her reached him, but now, _here_
she is at last, descending upon him like a whirlwind.

A line in a stiff, uncompromising hand apprises the professor of the
unwelcome fact. The "line" is signed by "Jane Majendie," therefore
there can be no doubt of the genuineness of the news contained in
it. Yes! that girl _has_ come!

The professor never swears, or he might now perhaps have given way
to reprehensible words.