And in return, the tutor allowed himself rarely, very rarely, a
moment of utterance from the depths of his real self. One evening,
in the summer term following the boy's matriculation, Elsmere brought
him an essay after Hall, and they sat on talking afterward. It was
a rainy, cheerless evening; the first contest of the Boats week had
been rowed in cold wind and sheet; a dreary blast whistled through
the college. Suddenly Langham reached out his hand for an open
letter. 'I have had an offer, Elsmere,' he said, abruptly.

And he put it into his hand. It was the offer of an important
Scotch professorship, coming from the man most influential in
assigning it. The last occupant of the post had been a scholar of
European eminence. Langham's contributions to a great foreign
review, and certain Oxford recommendations, were the basis of the
present overture, which, coming from one who was himself a classic
of the classics, was couched in terms flattering to any young man's
vanity.

Robert looked up with a joyful exclamation when he had finished the
letter.

'I congratulate you, sir.'

'I have refused it,' said Langham, abruptly.

His companion sat open-mouthed. Young as he was, he know perfectly
well that this particular appointment was one of the blue ribbons
of British scholarship.