"So, I see. She might so easily have made it your lip—or your nose—or——"
"What is there in Everett's cupboard besides the beer?" demands the professor angrily. "For Heaven's sake! attend to me, and don't sit there grinning like a first-class chimpanzee!"
This is extremely rude, but Hardinge takes no notice of it.
"I tell you she was kind—kinder than one would expect," says the professor, rapping his knuckles on the table.
"Oh! I see. She? Miss Wynter?"
"No—Mrs. Mulcahy!" roars the professor frantically. "Where's your head, man? Mrs. Mulcahy came into the room, and took Miss Wynter into her charge in the—er—the most wonderful way, and carried her off to bed." The professor mops his brow.
"Oh, well, that's all right," says Hardinge. "Sit down, old chap, and let's talk it over."
"It is not all right," says the professor. "It is all wrong. Here she is, and here she apparently means to stay. The poor child doesn't understand. She thinks I'm older than Methusaleh, and that she can live here with me. I can't explain it to her—you—don't think you could, do you, Hardinge?"
"No, I don't, indeed," says Hardinge, in a hurry. "What on earth has brought her here at all?"
"To stay. Haven't I told you? To stay for ever. She says"—with a groan—"she is going to settle me! To—to brush my hair! To—make my tea. She says I'm her guardian, and insists on living with me. She doesn't understand! Hardinge," desperately, "what am I to do?"