were rather curious. They arose in the following manner:

The Babe's sister was at Girton. A certain Miss Florence Beezley was
also at Girton. When the Babe's sister revisited the ancestral home at
the end of the term, she brought Miss Beezley with her to spend a week.
What she saw in Miss Beezley was to the Babe a matter for wonder, but
she must have liked her, or she would not have gone out of her way to
seek her company. Be that as it may, the Babe would have gone a very
long way out of his way to avoid her company. He led a fine, healthy,
out-of-doors life during that week, and doubtless did himself a lot of
good. But times will occur when it is imperative that a man shall be
under the family roof. Meal-times, for instance. The Babe could not
subsist without food, and he was obliged, Miss Beezley or no Miss
Beezley, to present himself on these occasions. This, by the way, was
in the Easter holidays, so that there was no school to give him an
excuse for absence.

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.