The banker himself was more affable, in the pompous way that was habitual with him. He never remembered to have heard the name of Bristow before, but being a friend of the squire, the young man was probably worth cultivating, and, in any case, there was nothing lost by a little politeness. So Mr. Cope cleared his throat, and planting himself like a colossus before the vacant grate, entered with becoming seriousness upon the state of the weather and the prospects of the crops. When the squire came in, five minutes later, Tom and the banker were chatting together, as if they had known each other for years. They all went in to dinner. Over the soup, said the squire to Mr. Cope: “You were telling me, the other day, that one of your fellows at the bank died a week or two ago?” “Yes: young Musgrave. Clever young man. Great loss to the firm.” “Well, if you have not filled up the place it might, perhaps, suit our young friend here,” indicating Tom, “if you like to take him on my recommendation. I don’t know whether Jenny introduced him properly, but he’s the son of Dr. Bristow, who attended my wife in her last illness. I respected his father, and I like the lad, and would gladly do something for him.” The banker was scandalized. It might almost be said that he was horrified. To think that he had been invited to meet, and, worse than that, had talked on terms of perfect equality with, a young man who was in want of an ordinary clerkship—who would, doubtless, be glad of a stool in the back office of his bank! It was monstrous—it was disgusting! But it was just the sort of inconsiderate conduct that might be expected from a man like Culpepper. His manner towards Tom froze in a moment. “What say you? Can you do anything for him?” urged the squire. “Why—ah—really, you know—should be most happy to oblige you, or to serve Mr.—Mr.——” “Bristow,” said the squire. “Bristow—thank you—but you see—ah—young Musgrave’s berth was filled up a week ago, and I’m sorry that I’ve nothing else just now at all likely to suit the requirements of your—ah—protégé. I’ll take another spoonful of clear soup, if you please.” Tom’s face was a study all this time. “I’m in for it now,” he said to himself. “The banker will never speak to me again.” “Ah, well,” said the squire, “I’ll see McKenna, the electioneering agent, to-morrow. I dare say he’ll know of something that will suit our young friend.” “Pardon me, Mr. Culpepper,” said Tom quietly, “but I’m afraid there’s a slight mistake somewhere. I am not aware that I ever expressed myself as being in want of a situation, either in Mr. Cope’s bank, or elsewhere. My business, such as it is, lies in London. I have only come down to Duxley to see a few old friends.” “Why, bless my heart,” said the squire, “I thought you told me yesterday that you were in want of something to do!” “A misunderstanding, I assure you, sir. Many thanks to you all the same.”