The Caterpillar shrugged his shoulders. Then he said slowly—
"Scaife's father pronounces 'connoisseur' 'connoysure,' and so does Scaife."
Desmond stood up, flushed and distressed, but emphatic.
"Scaife is right about one thing," he said. "He won't sit here like a cad and listen to Egerton sneering at his father. I'm very sorry, but after this we'd better split up. Verney and you, Egerton; and Scaife and I."
"Certainly," said the Caterpillar, rising in his turn.
Poor John cast a distracted and imploring glance at Desmond, which flashed by unheeded. Then he got up, and followed the Caterpillar out of the room. The passage was empty.
The Caterpillar sniffed as if the atmosphere in Scaife's room had been polluted.
"One has nothing to regret," he remarked. "Scaife has good points, and—er—bad. You've noticed his hands—eh! Very unfinished! And his foot—short, but broad." The Caterpillar surveyed his long, slender feet with infinite satisfaction; then he added, with an accent of finality, "Scaife talks about going into the Grenadiers; but they'll give him a hot time there, a very hot time. One is really sorry for the poor fellow, because, of course, he can't help being a bounder. What does puzzle me is, why did Cæsar want such a fellow for his pal?"
"Eh?—what?"