King and little Hartopp were sparring in the Reverend John Gillett's study at 10 P.M.--classical versus modern as usual.
'Character--proportion--background,' snarled King. 'That is the essence of the Humanities.'
'Analects of Confucius,' little Hartopp answered.
'Time,' said the Reverend John behind the soda-water. 'You men oppress me. Hartopp, what did you say to Paddy in your dormitories to-night? Even you couldn't have overlooked his face.'
'But I did,' said Hartopp calmly. 'I wasn't even humorous about it as some clerics might have been. I went straight through and said naught.'
'Poor Paddy! Now, for my part,' said King, 'and you know I am not lavish in my praises, I consider Winton a first-class type; absolutely first-class.'
'Ha-ardly,' said the Reverend John. 'First-class of the second class, I admit. The very best type of second class but'--he shook his head--'it should have been a rat. Pater'll never be anything more than a Colonel of Engineers.'
'What do you base that verdict on?' said King stiffly.
'He came to me after prayers--with all his conscience.'
'Poor old Pater. Was it the mouse?' said little Hartopp.