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was wide and a row of clouds paddled in the direction of London. Two muddy Labs greeted him, while the butler hurried across the gravel with an umbrella.
    Rain kept the family indoors most of the afternoon. The young man was wise enough to stay away from his mother. She would probe about the girl — or girls — in his life and he would have to tell her all about their families. He unpacked, hurriedly ate a sandwich alone, then visited the horses in their stalls. He spoke with Lawrence, the new boy, and Nigel, one of the three gardeners, who had been with the family nearly twenty years. Their conversation regarded the heated floors in one stall and a chicken coop ransacked by a fox. Rain fell on them equally, and rain filled their shoeprints when the three of them went to see the calf, born in April. As it was now September, the calf had a place on the hill among other cows.
    Before dinner, there were drinks: near the fireplace, a visiting uncle with a tumbler containing two fingers of Scotch, his monocle like an immense wet raindrop gleaming on his lapel. The young man — Barclay or Basil — reported gaily, “Uncle, I’ve got a job,” expecting his uncle to reply, “Spot on — let’s hear about it!”
    But his uncle frowned at this news. He lowered his drink, where it was momentarily lit and colored by the fire, then placed it onto the mantel. “A job, you say?”
    â€œYes, Uncle — a job,” announced the young man.
    The uncle ran a hand over his chin and muttered, “A job — really.” He turned his face toward the fire, breathed in, then exhaled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

WHY DO I REMEMBER THIS?
    When I was twenty years old, a college instructor and I talked about starting a literary magazine. As I had written some poetry, he figured that we could collaborate. He himself had published poems, earned an MFA , and had many things going for him, including a job that appeared easy to me, though I now know better: correcting student papers.
    I arrived at his house a little frightened, for he had been my instructor and was to be respected, if not feared, for his knowledge. Plus, I had seldom been to anyone else’s house — just relatives, just my best friend’s house. He opened the door and was surprised to see me, though he had told me come at that hour on that day. He let me in but not before eyeing my shoes, which had me instinctively brushing the soles against the welcome mat in an exaggerated manner — my shoes were like the wheels of a locomotive spinning to leave the station.
    I was immediately struck by how quiet the house seemed. Shy, I didn’t dare glance around and may have even walked through the hallway with my head lowered. I followed him to the kitchen where there was another person, also a college instructor, as I later found out. This man turned and said hello but nothing more. He then continued to peer into a cupboard.
    â€œCould you wait for us?” my college instructor asked.
    Wait for us? I furtively eyed the kitchen counter: lunch meat, a single tomato, a block of yellow cheese, bread, and mayonnaise. There was a bag of potato chips on the kitchen table, some apples and bananas in a bowl. The clock over the sink was paddling ahead and a single fly was buzzing on the sill.
    â€œWhere?” I asked innocently.
    My college instructor led me to the living room and left me there. With nothing to do, I sat on the couch and slowly sized up the room: lamps on end tables, books, magazines, black telephone, potted plants, yarn and knitting needles, an oil painting of the sea. So this is how college instructors live , I thought. I stood up and quietly went to the French doors. With a hand over my brow, I looked out. My eyes paused on an overturned wheelbarrow with long strands of grass struggling to climb up its metal sides. I studied this contraption, nothing more than a big bucket on wheels to ease things