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 the 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 heart. 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