conveniently to be had.

A few days after the glories of his degree, when his name was still
great on the High Street of Oxford, and had even been touched by
true fame in a very flattering manner in the columns of the "Daily
Jupiter," he came home to Hadley. His uncle never encouraged visits
from him in the city, and they met, therefore, for the first time in
the old man's drawing-room just before dinner.

"How are you, George?" said the uncle, putting out his hand to his
nephew, and then instantly turning round and poking the fire. "What
sort of a journey have you had from Oxford? Yes, these railways make
it all easy. Which line do you use? Didcot, eh? That's wrong. You'll
have a smash some of these days with one of those Great Western
express trains"--Mr. Bertram held shares in the opposition line by
which Oxford may be reached, and never omitted an opportunity of
doing a little business. "I'm ready for dinner; I don't know whether
you are. You eat lunch, I suppose. John, it's two minutes past the
half-hour. Why don't we have dinner?"

Not a word was said about the degree--at least, not then. Indeed Mr.
Bertram did not think very much about degrees. He had taken no degree
himself, except a high degree in wealth, and could not understand
that he ought to congratulate a young man of twenty-two as to a
successful termination of his school-lessons. He himself at that
age had been, if not on 'Change, at any rate seated on the steps of
'Change. He had been then doing a man's work; beginning to harden
together the nucleus of that snowball of money which he had since
rolled onwards till it had become so huge a lump--destined, probably,
to be thawed and to run away into muddy water in some much shorter
space of time. He could not blame his nephew: he could not call him
idle, as he would have delighted to do had occasion permitted; but he
would not condescend to congratulate him on being great in Greek or
mighty in abstract mathematics.

"Well, George," said he, pushing him the bottle as soon as the cloth
was gone, "I suppose you have done with Oxford now?"

"Not quite, sir; I have my fellowship to receive."

"Some beggarly two hundred pounds a year, I suppose. Not that I mean
to say you should not be glad to have it," he added, thus correcting
the impression which his words might otherwise have made. "As you
have been so long getting it, it will be better to have that than
nothing. But your fellowship won't make it nec