“And when have you known Cradock do, at any rate, the latter”?
“Ever since he got that scholarship, that Scotland thing at Oxford”—Sir Cradock knew the name well enough, as every Oxford man does—“he has been perfectly insufferable; such arrogance, such conceit, such airs! And he only got it by a trick. Poor Viley ought to have had it”.
John Rosedew tried to control himself, but the gross untruth and injustice of that last accusation were a little too much for him.
“Perhaps, Sir Cradock Nowell, you will allow that I am a competent judge of the relative powers of the two boys, who knew all they did know from me, and from no one else”.
“Of course, I know you are a competent judge, only blinded by partiality”.
John allowed even that to go by.
“Without any question of preference, simply as a lover of literature, I say that Clayton had no chance with him in a Greek examination. In Latin he would have run him close. You know I always said so, even before they went to college. I was surprised, at the time, that they mentioned Clayton even as second to him”.
“And grieved, I dare say, deeply grieved, if the truth were told”!
“It is below me to repel mean little accusations”.
“Come, John Rosedew”, said Sir Cradock, magnanimously and liberally, “I can forgive you for being quarrelsome, even at such a time as this. It always was so, and I suppose it always will be. To–day I am not fit for much, though perhaps you do not know it. Thinking so little of my dead boy, you are surprised that I should grieve for him”.