"Is he a beast to us?" said John.
The freckle-faced boy answered affably, "That depends. His Imperial Highness"—he kicked the new portmanteau hard—"will not find Mr. Richard Rutford a beast. Far from it. And he's civil to the Demon, because his papa is a man of many shekels. But to mere outsiders, like myself, a beast of beasts; ay, the very king of beasts, is—Dirty Dick."
And then—oh, horrors!—the door of No. 15 opened, and Rutford appeared, followed by a seemingly young and very fashionably dressed lady. The boys jumped to their feet. All, except Scaife, looked preternaturally solemn. The house-master nodded carelessly.
"This is Scaife, Duchess," he said in his thick, rasping tones. "Scaife and Verney, let me present you to the Duchess of Trent."
He mouthed the illustrious name, as if it were a large and ripe greengage.
The duchess advanced, smiling graciously. "These"—Rutford named the other boys—"are Egerton, Lovell, and—er—Duff."
Scaife, alone of those present, appreciated the order in which his schoolfellows had been named. Egerton—known as the Caterpillar—was the son of a Guardsman; Lovell's father was a judge; Duff's father an obscure parson.
The duchess shook hands with each boy. "Your father and I are old friends," she said to Egerton; "and I have had the pleasure of meeting your uncle," she smiled at John.
Duff looked unhappy and ill at ease, because it was almost certain that his last sentence had been overheard by the house-master. The duchess asked a few questions and then took her leave. She and her son were dining with the Head Master. Rutford accompanied her.
"Did the blighter hear?" said Duff.