'What, Sir Carnaby?' asked Trevor, wearily.
'The development of his genius.'
Trevor Chute laughed aloud at this, and said:
'Ah! there is nothing like a hand-to-hand free fight with the world for that.'
'You are a soldier, Chute, but the world is no longer a bivalve, which one may, like ancient Pistol, open by the sword. Desmond graduated at Oxford.'
'As stroke oar, Sir Carnaby, I presume.'
'He would have taken the highest honours, Chute, and all that sort of thing, don't you know, only—only——'
'He could not?'
'Not at all,' replied Sir Carnaby, somewhat tartly. 'He preferred that they should be taken, Chute, by those who set their hearts on such things; yet for Clare's sake, I wish——'
Whatever it was he wished, Trevor Chute never learned, for now he lost all patience, and affecting suddenly to remember another engagement, bade farewell, curtly and hurriedly, to Sir Carnaby, who said: