Love and Mr. Lewisham

by H. G. Wells

Mr. Blendershin stared at Lewisham for a moment. “What’s he done in the way of certificates?” asked Mr. Blendershin of the assistant.

The assistant read a list of ‘ologies and ‘ographies. “Fifty resident,” said Mr. Blendershin concisely—“that’s your figure. Sixty, if you’re lucky.”

“What?” said Mr. Lewisham.

“Not enough for you?”

“Not nearly.”

“You can get a Cambridge graduate for eighty resident—and grateful,” said Mr. Blendershin.

“But I don’t want a resident post,” said Lewisham.

“Precious few non-resident shops,” said Mr. Blendershin. “Precious few. They want you for dormitory supervision—and they’re afraid of your taking pups outside.”

“Not married by any chance?” said the assistant suddenly, after an attentive study of Lewisham’s face.

“Well—er.” Lewisham met Mr. Blendershin’s eye. “Yes,” he said.