There was something in the tone of that last remark, common–place as it was, without the key to it, which the hearer disliked particularly.
“I have requested the favour of your attendance here, Mr. Garnet, that I might have the benefit of your opinion upon a subject which causes me the very deepest anxiety—at least, I mean, which interests me deeply.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Garnet: he could say “ah!” in such a manner that it held three volumes uncut.
“Yes. I wish to ask your opinion about my poor son, Cradock.”
Bull Garnet said not a word, but conveyed to the ceiling his astonishment that the housemaid had left such cobwebs there.
“I fear, Garnet, you cannot sympathize with me. You are so especially fortunate in your own domestic circumstances.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Garnet, still contemplating the cornice. “Oh exclamantis est,” beautifully observes the Eton grammar.
“Yes, your son is a perfect pattern. So gentle and gentlemanly; so amiable and poetical. I had no idea he was so brave. Shall I ever see him to thank him for saving the life of my niece?”
“He is a fine fellow, a noble fellow, Sir Cradock. The dearest and the best boy in the whole wide world.”
The old man long had known that the flaw in Bull Garnetʼs armour was the thought of his dear boy, Bob.