r, as if asking for an explanation of the joke.

"Oh! nothing--nothing. Only--you are such a queer fellow!" says
Hardinge, sitting up again to look at him. "You are a _rara avis_, do
you know? No, of course you don't! You are one of the few people who
don't know their own worth. I don't believe, Curzon, though I should
live to be a thousand, that I shall ever look upon your like again."

"And so you laugh. Well, no doubt it is a pleasant reflection," says the
professor dismally. "I begin to wish now I had never seen myself."

"Oh, come! cheer up," says Hardinge, "your pretty ward will be all
right. If Lady Baring takes her in hand, she----"

"Ah! But will she?" says the professor. "Will she like Per----Miss
Wynter?"

"Sure to," said Hardinge, with quite a touch of enthusiasm. "'To see her
is to love her, and love but'----"

"That is of no consequence where anyone is concerned except Lady
Baring," says the professor, with a little twist in his chair, "and my
sister has not seen her as yet. And besides, that is not the only
question--a greater one remains."

"By Jove! you don't say so! What?" demands Mr. Hardinge, growing
earnest.

"Will Miss Wynter like _her_?" says the professor. "That is the real
point."

"Oh! I see!" says Hardinge thoughtfully.

The next day, however, proves the professor's fears vain in both
quarters. An early visit to Lady Baring, and an anxious appeal, brings
out all that delightful woman's best qualities. One stipulation alone
she makes, that she may see the young heiress before finally committing
herself to chaperone her safely through the remainder of the season.

The professor, filled with hope, hies back to his rooms, calls for Mrs.
Mulcahy, tells her he is going to take his ward for a drive, and gives
that worthy and now intensely interested landlady full directions to see
that Miss Wynter looks--"er--nice! you know, Mrs. Mulcahy, her _best_
suit, and----"

Mrs. Mulcahy came generously to the rescue.

"Her best frock, sir, I suppose, an' her Sunday bonnet. I've often
wished it before, Mr. Curzon, an' I'm thinkin' that 'twill be the makin'
of ye; an' a handsome, purty little crathur she is an' no mistake. An'
who is to give away the poor dear, sir, askin' yer pardon?"

"I am," says the professor.

"Oh no, sir; the likes was never known. 'Tis the the father or one of
his belongings as gives away the bride, _niver_ the husband to be, 'an
if ye _have_ nobody, sir, you two, why