"Nonsense. You can't libel a dead man."
"Yes, but these two sons aren't dead. Or at least you say they're not."
H.M. considered this. "You think maybe it's a bit strong."
"Strong? It'll get you a thousand-pound suit for damages before you're even out of the first paragraph."
"Well… now," H.M. reflected again. "Yes, maybe it is a bit on the outspoken side. All right. I'll tell you what we'll say. We'll say, 'Robert Blandforth Merrivale and Hugo Parr Merrivale, who are now in business in the City and have inherited many of the family traits.' That's all right, surely?"
"But-"
"I didn't say their father's traits. I said the family traits. Lord love a duck, sayin' they've inherited the family traits is practically praising 'em, ain't it?"
Though Courtney seemed to detect a flaw in this argument, he remained silent.
"I will now give a sketch of my childhood days," he continued abruptly. "These childhood days would have been pleasant enough had they not been poisoned by the aforementioned George Byron Merrivale.
"This weasel was always the first to insist that I should be sent to the dentist or have my hair cut. He 'heard my lessons' by asking me what was the capital of Bessarabia, or setting sums in arithmetic about the activities of a half-witted goop who was always goin' into a provision-merchant's and ordering enough groceries to last the average family for the next fourteen years.