“There is an impertinence which is redeemed by wit,” said Sir Charles, severely. “There is another which is the mere boorishness of the clodhopper. As you grow older and wiser you may discern the difference.”
“You are very right, sir,” said the young man, warmly. “The finer shades of impertinence are infinitely subtle, and only experience and the society of one who is a recognised master”—here he bowed to his uncle—“can enable one to excel.”
Sir Charles was notoriously touchy in temper for the first hour after his morning chocolate. He allowed himself to show it.
“I cannot congratulate my brother upon his son,” said he. “I had hoped for something more worthy of our traditions.”
“Perhaps, sir, upon a longer acquaintance—”
“The chance is too small to justify the very irksome experience. I must ask you, sir, to bring to a close a visit which never should have been made.”
The young man smiled affably, but gave no sign of departure.
“May I ask, sir,” said he, in an easy conversational fashion, “whether you can recall Principal Munro, of my college?”
“No, sir, I cannot,” his uncle answered, sharply.
“Naturally you would not burden your memory to such an extent, but he still remembers you. In some conversation with him yesterday he did me the honour to say that I brought you back to his recollection by what he was pleased to call the mingled levity and obstinacy of my character. The levity seems to have already impressed you. I am now reduced to showing you the obstinacy.” He sat down in a chair near the door and folded his arms, still beaming pleasantly at his uncle.