He had only been half glad when Harold Hardinge--a young man, and yet, strange to say, his most intimate friend--had dropped in to smoke a pipe with him.

Hardinge was fonder of the professor than he knew, and was drawn to him by curious intricate webs.

The professor suited him, and he suited the professor, though in truth Hardinge was nothing more than a gay young society man, with just the average amount of brains, but not an ounce beyond that.
A tall, handsome young man, with fair brown hair and hazel eyes, a dark moustache and a happy manner, Mr.Hardinge laughs his way through life, without money, or love, or any other troubles.
"Can you ask ?" says he.

"Go on, Curzon.

What is she like ?" "It wouldn't interest you," says the professor.
"I beg your pardon, it is profoundly interesting; I've got to keep an eye on you, or else in a weak moment you will let her marry you." The professor moves uneasily.
"May I ask how you knew I _had_ a ward ?" "That should go without telling.