Master, Miss Prior is worth at least fifty guineas a year more than you give her, I would not have had her speak until she had found a better place."
"You mean to say she proposes to go away?"
"A wealthy friend of mine, who was a member of our college, by the way, wants a nursery governess, and I have recommended Miss Prior to him, at seventy guineas a year."
"And pray who's the member of my college who will give my niece seventy guineas?" asks the Master, fiercely.
"You remember Lovel, the gentleman-pensioner?"
"The sugar-baking man—the man who took you out of ga. . .?"
"One good turn deserves another," says I, hastily. "I have done as much for some of your family, Sargent!"
The red Master, who had been rustling up and down his study in his gown and bands, stopped in his walk as if I had struck him. He looked at me. He turned redder than ever. He drew his hand over his eyes. "Batchelor," says he, "I ask your pardon. It was I who forgot myself—may heaven forgive me!—forgot how good you have been to my family, to my—ahem!—humble family, and—and how devoutly thankful I ought to be for the protection which they have found in you." His voice quite fell as he spoke; and of course any little wrath which I might have felt was disarmed before his contrition. We parted the best friends. He not only shook hands with me at the study door, but he actually followed me to the hall door, and shook hands at his lodge porch, sub Jove, in the quadrangle. Huckles, the tutor (Highlow Huckles we used to call him in our time), and Botts (Trumperian professor), who happened to be passing through the court at the time, stood aghast as they witnessed the phenomenon.
"I say, Batchelor," asks Huckles, "have you been made a marquis by any chance?"
"Why a marquis, Huckles?" I ask.
"Sargent never comes to his lodge-door with any man under a marquis," says Huckles, in a low whisper.
"Or a pretty woman," says that Botts (he will have his joke). "Batchelor, my elderly Tiresias, are you turned into a lovely young lady par hasard?"
"Get along, you absurd Trumperian professor!" say I. But the circumstance was the talk not only in Compotation Room that evening over our wine, but of the whole college. And further, events happened which made each man look at his neighbour with wonder. For that whole term Sargent did not ask our nobleman Lord Sackville (Lord Wigmore's son) to the lodge. (Lord W.'s father, you know, Duff, was baker to the college.) For that whole term he was rude but twice to Perks, the junior tutor, and then only in a very mild way: and what is more, he gave his niece a present of a gown, of his blessing, of a kiss, and a high character, when she went down;—and promised to put one of her young brothers to school—which promise, I need not say, he faithfully kept: for he has good principles,
