CHAPTER IV.
"Dear, if you knew what tears they shed, Who live apart from home and friend, To pass my house, by pity led, Your steps would tend." He makes the acquaintance of the latter very shortly.

But requires no spoon to sup with her, as Miss Majendie's invitations to supper, or indeed to luncheon, breakfast or dinner, are so few and rare that it might be rash for a hungry man to count on them.
The professor, who has felt it to be his duty to call on his ward regularly every week, has learned to know and (I regret to say) to 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 Jane 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.