loathe that estimable spinster christened Jane Majendie.

After every visit to her house he has sworn to himself that _"this
one"_ shall be his last, and every Wednesday following he has gone
again. Indeed, to-day being Wednesday in the heart of June, he may
be seen sitting bolt upright in a hansom on his way to the unlovely
house that holds Miss Majendie.

As he enters the dismal drawing-room, where he finds Miss Majendie
and her niece, it becomes plain, even to his inexperienced brain,
that there has just been a row on, somewhere.

Perpetua is sitting on a distant lounge, her small vivacious face
one thunder-cloud. Miss Majendie, sitting on the hardest chair this
hideous room contains, is smiling. A terrible sign. The professor
pales before it.

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Curzon," says Miss Majendie, rising and
extending a bony hand. "As Perpetua's guardian, you may perhaps have
some influence over her. I say 'perhaps' advisedly, as I scarcely
dare to hope _anyone_ could influence a mind so distorted as hers."

"What is it?" asks the professor nervously--of Perpetua, not of Miss
Majendie.

"I'm dull," says Perpetua sullenly.

The professor glances keenly at the girl's downcast face, and then
at Miss Majendie. The latter glance is a question.