"Um!" remarks the President (I have run down and got a vacant bed-room in College). "Glad to see you. Oh, yes, about that tutorship. Um, um! The family live in Somerset." He mentions the county apologetically, as if he expected me to reply—"Oh, Somerset! Couldn't dream of going there. Not very particular, but must have a place within ten miles of Charing Cross." As I don't object to Somerset, at least audibly, he goes on more cheerfully—
"Boy doesn't want to be taught much, so perhaps, it would suit you."—(Query—is this insulting?)—"He wants a companion more—somebody to keep him steady, have a good influence and all that, and give him a little classics and so on for about an hour a day."
It did not sound as bad as I expected.
"Rich people—um—merchants at Bristol, I think. Not very cultivated, though." Here President pauses again, and looks as if he would not be at all astonished if I rose from my chair, put on my hat, and said, "Not very cultivated! That won't suit me! You see how tremendously cultivated I am." But I don't, and he proceeds calmly to another head of his discourse.
"They haven't mentioned terms, but I'm sure they will be satisfactory—give you what you ask, in fact." (Rather a nice trait in their character, this.)—"Now, will you—um—take it? They want somebody at once."
"Yes," I reply; "I'll go and see how I fancy it. Have they got a billiard-table, do you happen to know?"
The President says, "he doesn't know anything about that," and looks a little surprised, as if I had proposed a game of skittles.
On way down (next day) I feel rather like a Governess going to her first situation. Get to house late. Too dark to see what it's like. Have to drive up in a village fly. Query—Oughtn't they to have sent their carriage for me?
My reception is peculiar. A stout, masculine-looking female with a strident voice, is presumably Mrs. BRISTOL MERCHANT.
Sends me up to my bed-room as if I were my own luggage. Evidently very "uncultivated."