For many months Eager found no shade of difference in their development. They had started level, and they progressed in equal degree, and progressed marvellously. The virgin soil brought forth an abundant harvest. But then, in spite of all, it was good soil, and ready for the seed.
The grim old man at Carne sent now and again for Eager, and received him always, snuff-box in hand, with a cynical, "Well, Mr. Eager, no progress?"
"Progress, Sir Denzil? Heaps! We are advancing by leaps and bounds. We are doing splendidly."
"You've still got the two of them, I see,"--as though they were puppies Eager was trying to dispose of.
"Still got the two, sir, and I couldn't tell you which is the better of them. There are the makings of fine men in both."
"Then you're just where you were as to which is which?"
"Just where you have been these ten years, sir."
"You have seen more of them in ten weeks than I've seen in ten years."
"They are developing every day, but so far they run neck to neck. But, candidly, Sir Denzil, I scarcely know what signs one could take as any decisive indication of their descent. Heredity is a ticklish thing to draw any certain inference from. It plays odd tricks, as you know."
"I had hoped somewhat from those swimming lessons----" and he snuffed regretfully.