“Now, papa,” said a young lady sitting opposite the monitors, “I’ve been asking Walter here which is the cleverest of those boys.”
“Ahem! young men you mean,” interrupted her elder sister.
“No, no,” said Walter positively, “call them boys; to call them young men is all bosh; we shall have ‘young gentlemen’ next, which is awful twaddle.”
“Well, which of those boys on the platform is the cleverest—the greatest swell he calls it? Now you profess to be a physiognomist, papa, so just see if you can guess.”
“I’m to look out for some future Byron or Peel among them; eh, Walter?”
“Yes.”
The old gentleman put on his spectacles, and deliberately looked round the row of monitors, who were awaiting the Headmaster’s signal to begin the speeches.
“Well, haven’t you done yet, papa? What an age you are. Walter says you ought to tell at a glance.”
“Patience, my dear, patience. I’ll tell you in a minute.”
“There,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “that boy seated last but one on the bench nearest us has more genius than any of them, I should say.” He pointed to one of the youngest-looking of the monitors, who would also have been the most striking in personal appearance had not the almost hectic rose-colour of his cheeks, and the quiet shining of his blue eyes, under the soft hair that hung over his forehead, given a look of greater delicacy than was desirable in a boyish face.