“Carlingford,” said some one; “he was up at King’s till quite lately, was he not?”
Mr. Marshall blinked intelligently behind his spectacles.
“Yes, but we had no idea we were harbouring a genius. In fact, no one even suspected he had real talent of any kind. But he was not stupid.”
“It is possible, even probable, that he had no talent,” exclaimed Wallingthorpe. “Genius and talent have nothing in common. You might as well expect to find a bird that had hands because it has wings. Genius flies, talent—the metaphor breaks down—walks on its hands and feet. But what made you think he had no talent?”
“His work was always very careless, and showed no very distinct promise.”
Wallingthorpe beat the air with prophetic hands.
“His Greek prose! His Latin verses! His οὐ and his μἠ That is very likely. Did it not occur to any one that you might as well have set a wild Indian to hem handkerchiefs?”
“You see we all have to hem handkerchiefs here,” said his host urbanely; “that is the reason why young men come to Cambridge.”
“And you wonder when your thorns bear grapes and your thistles figs!” said Wallingthorpe. “Yet those are to blame who did not know that the thistle was a fig-tree.”
Dr. Madeford laughed good-naturedly.