“They have formed the frequent subject of your conversation,” I replied. “You have had Bessy as a governess....” “A nursery governess--she has learned Latin, and a great deal more, since she has been in my house!” cries the Master. “A nursery governess at the wages of a housemaid,” I continued, as bold as Corinthian brass. “Does my niece, does my--ahem!--children’s governess, complain of my treatment in my college?” cries the Master. “My dear Master,” I asked, “you don’t suppose I would have listened to her complaints, or, at any rate, have repeated them, until now?” “And why now, Batchelor, I should like to know?” says the Master, pacing up and down his study in a fume, under the portraits of Holy Bonifacius, Bishop Budgeon, and all the defunct bigwigs of the college. “And why now, Batchelor, I should like to know?” says he. “Because, though after staying with you for three years, and having improved herself greatly, as every woman must in your society, my dear Master, Miss Prior is worth at least fifty guineas a year more than you give her, I would not have had her speak until she had found a better place.” “You mean to say she proposes to go away?” “A wealthy friend of mine, who was a member of our college, by the way, wants a nursery governess, and I have recommended Miss Prior to him, at seventy guineas a year.” “And pray who’s the member of my college who will give my niece seventy guineas?” asks the Master, fiercely. “You remember Lovel, the gentleman-pensioner?” “The sugar-baking man--the man who took you out of ga...?” “One good turn deserves another,” says I, hastily. “I have done as much for some of your family, Sargent!” The red Master, who had been rustling up and down his study in his gown and bands, stopped in his walk as if I had struck him. He looked at me. He turned redder than ever. He drew his hand over his eyes. “Batchelor,” says he, “I ask your pardon. It was I who forgot myself--may heaven forgive me!--forgot how good you have been to my family, to my--ahem!--_humble_ family, and--and how devoutly thankful I ought to be for the protection which they have found in you.” His voice quite fell as he spoke; and of course any little wrath which I might have felt was disarmed before his contrition. We parted the best friends. He not only shook hands with me at the study door, but he actually followed me to the hall door, and shook hands at his lodge porch, _sub Jove_, in the quadrangle. Huckles, the tutor (Highlow Huckles we used to call him in our time), and Botts (Trumperian professor), who happened to be passing through the court at the time, stood aghast as they witnessed the phenomenon. “I say, Batchelor,” asks Huckles, “have you been made a marquis by any chance?” “Why a marquis, Huckles?” I ask. “Sargent never comes to his lodge-door with any man under a marquis,” says Huckles, in a low whisper.