ously, under a covering pretence of a less elegant function.
The Professor hates scenes worse than poison, and Tishy knows it.

"There, there! Well, well! Nothing to cry about. _That's_ right." This
is approval of the disappearance of the pocket-handkerchief--some
confusion between cause and effect, perhaps. "Come, my child--come,
Laetitia--suppose now you tell me all about it."

Tishy acknowledges to herself that she desires nothing better. Yes,
papa dear, she will, indeed she will, tell him everything. And then
makes a very fair revelation of her love-affair--a little dry and
stilted in the actual phrasing, perhaps, but then, what can you expect
when one's father is inclined to be stiff and awkward in such a matter,
to approach it formally, and consider it an interview? It was all
mamma's fault, of course. Why should she be summoned before the bar of
the house? Why couldn't her father find his way into her confidence in
the natural current of events? However, this was better than nothing.

Besides, we softened gradually as we developed the subject. One of
us, who was Mr. Bradshaw at first, became Julius later, with a strong
lubricating effect. We began with sincere attachment, but we loved
each other dearly before we had done. We didn't know when "it" began
exactly--which was a fib, for we were perfectly well aware that "it"
began that evening at Krakatoa Villa, which has been chronicled
herein--but for a long time past Julius had been asking to be allowed
to memorialise the Professor on the subject.

"But you know, papa dear, I couldn't say he was to speak to you until
I was quite certain of myself. Besides, I did want him to be on better
terms with mamma first."

Professor Wilson flushed angrily, and began with a knitted brow, "I
wish your mother would----" but stopped abruptly. Then, calming down:
"But you are quite certain _now_, my dear Laetitia?" Oh dear, yes; no
doubt of that. And how about Julius? The confident ring of the girl's
laugh, and her "Why, you should hear him!" showed that she, at least,
was well satisfied of her lover's earnestness.

"Well, my dear child," said the Professor, who was beginning to feel
that it was time to go back to his unfinished ignoramus, tyro, or
sciolist; "I tell you what I shall do. When's he coming next? Thursday,
to dinner. Very well. I shall make a little opportunity for a quiet
talk with him, and we shall see."

The young lady came out of the library on the whole co