"I thought, sir, if you would say a word."
"Do you think it would be right that I should interfere for one special man, and that a man of special rank?"
"Nobody thinks that would count for anything. But—"
"But what?" asked the Master.
"If you knew my father, sir!"
"Everybody knows your father;—every Englishman I mean. Of course I know your father,—as a public man, and I know how much the country owes to him."
"Yes, it does. But it is not that I mean. If you knew how this would,—would,—would break his heart." Then there came a tear into the young man's eye,—and there was something almost like a tear in the eye of the old man too. "Of course it was my fault. I got him to come. He hadn't the slightest intention of staying. I think you will believe what I say about that, sir."
"I believe every word you say, my Lord."
"I got into a row at Oxford. I daresay you heard. There never was anything so stupid. That was a great grief to my father,—a very great grief. It is so hard upon him because he never did anything foolish himself."
"You should try to imitate him." Silverbridge shook his head. "Or at least not to grieve him."