While Sir Patrick was looking over the list, and while Arnold was making his way to Blanche, at the back of her uncle’s chair, One, Two, and Three—­with the Chorus in attendance on them—­descended in a body on Geoffrey, at the other end of the room, and appealed in rapid succession to his superior authority, as follows: 

“I say, Delamayn.  We want You.  Here is Sir Patrick running a regular Muck at us.  Calls us aboriginal Britons.  Tells us we ain’t educated.  Doubts if we could read, write, and cipher, if he tried us.  Swears he’s sick of fellows showing their arms and legs, and seeing which fellow’s hardest, and who’s got three belts of muscle across his wind, and who hasn’t, and the like of that.  Says a most infernal thing of a chap.  Says—­because a chap likes a healthy out-of-door life, and trains for rowing and running, and the rest of it, and don’t see his way to stewing over his books—­therefore he’s safe to commit all the crimes in the calendar, murder included.  Saw your name down in the newspaper for the Foot-Race; and said, when we asked him if he’d taken the odds, he’d lay any odds we liked against you in the other Race at the University—­meaning, old boy, your Degree.  Nasty, that about the Degree—­in the opinion of Number One.  Bad taste in Sir Patrick to rake up what we never mention among ourselves—­in the opinion of Number Two.  Un-English to sneer at a man in that way behind his back—­in the opinion of Number Three.  Bring him to book, Delamayn.  Your name’s in the papers; he can’t ride roughshod over You.”

The two choral gentlemen agreed (in the minor key) with the general opinion.  “Sir Patrick’s views are certainly extreme, Smith?” “I think, Jones, it’s desirable to hear Mr. Delamayn on the other side.”

Geoffrey looked from one to the other of his admirers with an expression on his face which was quite new to them, and with something in his manner which puzzled them all.

“You can’t argue with Sir Patrick yourselves,” he said, “and you want me to do it?”

One, Two, Three, and the Chorus all answered, “Yes.”

“I won’t do it.”

One, Two, Three, and the Chorus all asked, “Why?”

“Because,” answered Geoffrey, “you’re all wrong.  And Sir Patrick’s right.”

Not astonishment only, but downright stupefaction, struck the deputation from the garden speechless.

Without saying a word more to any of the persons standing near him, Geoffrey walked straight up to Sir Patrick’s arm-chair, and personally addressed him.  The satellites followed, and listened (as well they might) in wonder.

“You will lay any odds, Sir,” said Geoffrey “against me taking my Degree?  You’re quite right.  I sha’n’t take my Degree.  You doubt whether I, or any of those fellows behind me, could read, write, and cipher correctly if you tried us.  You’re right again—­we couldn’t.  You say you don’t know why men like Me, and men like Them, may not begin with