“Oh! by the by, Dr. Wilkinson,” he said, letting fall the pencil with which he had been tapping the table during his cogitations, “you have one of Sir George Vernon's grandsons with you, I believe?”
“Two of them,” replied the doctor.
“Ah! indeed, I mean young Mortimer, son of Mr. Mortimer of Dashwood.”
“I have his eldest son, and am expecting another to-day.”
“Then it was your expected pupil that I saw this morning,” said Mr. Percy.
“May I ask where?” said the doctor.
“At the White Lion. He came down by the London coach. I saw his trunk, in the first place, addressed to you, and supposed him to be the young gentleman who attained to some rather undesirable notoriety last year.”
“How so?” asked the doctor.
“Oh! he very ungenerously and artfully endeavored to retain for himself the honor of writing a clever little essay, really the work of his brother, and actually obtained a prize from his grandfather for it.”
“How came that about?” asked Dr. Wilkinson.