"Then I know you deserved it; as you often do," rejoined Miss Beauclerc; "but I'd keep a civil tongue in my head, if I were you, Aultane. I only wonder he has not reported you before. You should have me for your senior."
"If he does go in and report me, please tell the dean to ask him where his gold medal is," foamed Aultane. "And to make him answer it."
"What do you mean?" she questioned.
"He knows. If the dean offered him a thousand half-crowns for his medal, he could not produce it."
"What does he mean?" repeated Miss Beauclerc, looking at Henry Arkell.
He could not answer: he literally could not. Could he have dropped down without life at Georgina's feet, it had been welcome, rather than that she should hear of an act, which, to his peculiarly refined temperament, bore an aspect of shame so utter. His face flushed a vivid red, and then grew white as his surplice.
"He can't tell you," said Aultane; "that is, he won't. He has put it into pawn."
"And his watch too," squeaked Lewis, from behind, who had heard of the affair from Aultane.
Henry Arkell raised his eyes for one deprecating moment to Miss Beauclerc's face; she was struck with their look of patient anguish. She cast an annihilating frown at Lewis, and, raising her finger haughtily motioned Aultane to his place. "I believe nothing ill of you," she whispered to Henry, as she passed on to the choir.
The next to come in was Mr. St. John. "What's the matter?" he hurriedly said to Henry, who had not a vestige of colour in his cheeks or lips.