Lewisham’s inquiries for evening teaching and private tuition were essentially provisional measures.  His proposals for a more permanent establishment displayed a certain defect in his sense of proportion.  That Melbourne professorship, for example, was beyond his merits, and there were aspects of things that would have affected the welcome of himself and his wife at Eton College.  At the outset he was inclined to regard the South Kensington scholar as the intellectual salt of the earth, to overrate the abundance of “decent things” yielding from one hundred and fifty to three hundred a year, and to disregard the competition of such inferior enterprises as the universities of Oxford, Cambridge, and the literate North.  But the scholastic agents to whom he went on the following Saturday did much in a quiet way to disabuse his mind.

Mr. Blendershin’s chief assistant in the grimy little office in Oxford Street cleared up the matter so vigorously that Lewisham was angered.  “Headmaster of an endowed school, perhaps!” said Mr. Blendershin’s chief assistant “Lord!—­why not a bishopric?  I say,”—­as Mr. Blendershin entered smoking an assertive cigar—­“one-and-twenty, no degree, no games, two years’ experience as junior—­wants a headmastership of an endowed school!” He spoke so loudly that it was inevitable the selection of clients in the waiting-room should hear, and he pointed with his pen.

“Look here!” said Lewisham hotly; “if I knew the ways of the market I shouldn’t come to you.”

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.

The assistant was briefly unprintable.  “Lord! you’ll have to keep that dark,” said Mr. Blendershin.  “But you have got a tough bit of hoeing before you.  If I was you I’d go on and get my degree now you’re so near it.  You’ll stand a better chance.”

Pause.

“The fact is,” said Lewisham slowly and looking at his boot toes, “I must be doing something while I am getting my degree.”

The assistant, whistled softly.