“I only mean that she made such a point of it; she would think I had done it expressly to vex her, or she might come wherever I was, and try to make me leave it.”
“So she might,” said the cleric, and laughed a little to himself, for he knew her, and fancied a scene, “but what can you do? I think you must, in fact, and the best way will be to tell her nothing about it. She has cut you, you know, for the present, and you need not, if you think it would vex her, go in your own name, do you see? We’ll call you Mr. Herbert, you’re descended maternally, you know, from Herberts; now—not for a moment, now, just hear me out: there shall be no deception, of course. I’ll tell them that for certain family reasons I have advised you to take that measure. I’ll take it all on myself, and say all I think of you, and know of you, and I saw, just now, in this very paper, something that I think would answer very nicely. Yes, yes, I’ll make it all quite straight and easy. But you must do as I say.”
The kind little gentleman was thinking that eccentric and fierce Miss Perfect might never forgive his engaging himself as a tutor, without at least that disguise, and he looked forward as he murmured varium et mutabile semper, to a much earlier redintegratio amoris than William dreamed of.
“It’s unlucky her having made a point of it. But what is the poor fellow to do? She must not, however, be offended more than we can help and that will show a wish, as far as was practicable, to consult her feelings.”
Doctor Sprague looked along a column in the Times, and said he, after his scrutiny—
“I think there’s just one of these you’ll like—say which you prefer, and I’ll tell you if it’s the one I think.”
So William conned over the advertisements, and, in Aunt Dinah’s phrase, put on his considering cap, and having pondered a good while, “This one, I think?” he half decided and half inquired.
“The very thing!” said Dr. Sprague, cheerily. “One boy—country-house—just the thing; he’ll be in his bed early, you know, and you can take your books and write away till twelve at night; and now you had better drop them a line—or stay, I’ll do it; you can’t sign your name, you know.”
So, communications being opened, in a day or two it turned out that Doctor Sprague knew the gentleman who advertised. It was a very old and long interrupted acquaintance.
“He’s a quiet, kind fellow, and Kincton Hall, they say, a pretty place and old. I’ll write to Knox.”