“A young man for whom I entertain a great respect,” retorted the Rector.
“One of those highly respectable young men who push their way on in the world,” sneered Cyril.
“And often become great with the poorest of means for pushing their way,” said the Rector, “while those well started miserably fail.”
“Oh, yes; I know ’em,” said Cyril. “One reads of them in the nice books. Bah! I haven’t patience with the prigs; and as for this Luke Ross,” he cried, with the colour burning as two spots in his cheeks, “I look upon him as one of the most contemptible cads under the sun. You talk of wishing that you had such a son, father! Why the fellow is utterly beneath our notice.”
“Why?” said his father, in a sharp, incisive tone.
“Why?” replied Cyril. “Because he is.”
“A pitiful reply,” said the Rector, angrily. “Can you give me a better reason for your dislike to Luke Ross?”
“Not I. He is not worth it.”
“Then I’ll give you one,” replied the Rector. “The true one, Cyril, though it cuts me to the heart to have to speak so to my son, and before the mother who has worshipped him from his birth.”
“Oh, Eli, pray, pray spare me this,” cried Mrs Mallow, supplicatingly.