’Of course; he enjoys it.  Almost all the people on that row belong to him—­father, mother, sisters, brothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins to the fourth degree.  Look at their eyes fondly fixed upon him!  Now he pretends to loosen his collar at the throat, just for a change of attitude—­the puppy!’

‘My dear!’ remonstrated his mother, with apprehensive glance at her neighbours.

‘But he is really clever, isn’t he, Buckland?’ asked the sister, her name was Sidwell.

’After a fashion.  I shouldn’t wonder if he takes a dozen or two prizes.  It’s all a knack, you know.’

‘Where is your friend Peak?’ Mr. Warricombe made inquiry.

But at this moment Mr. Chilvers abandoned his endeavour and became seated, allowing the Principal to rise, manuscript in hand.  Buckland leaned back with an air of resignation to boredom; his father bent slightly forward, with lips close pressed and brows wrinkled; Mrs Warricombe widened her eyes, as if hearing were performed with those organs, and assumed the smile she would have worn had the speaker been addressing her in particular.  Sidwell’s blue eyes imitated the movement of her mother’s, with a look of profound gravity which showed that she had wholly forgotten herself in reverential listening; only when five minutes’ strict attention induced a sense of weariness did she allow a glance to stray first along the professorial rank, then towards the place where the golden head of young Chilvers was easily distinguishable.

Nothing could be more satisfactory than the annual report summarised by Principal Nares, whose mellifluous voice and daintily pedantic utterance fell upon expectant hearing with the impressiveness of personal compliment.  So delivered, statistics partook of the grace of culture; details of academic organisation acquired something more than secular significance.  In this the ninth year of its existence, Whitelaw College was flourishing in every possible way.  Private beneficence had endowed it with new scholarships and exhibitions; the scheme of lectures had been extended; the number of its students steadily increased, and their successes in the field of examination had been noteworthy beyond precedent.  Truly, the heart of their founder, to whom honour had this day been rendered, must have gladdened if he could but have listened to the story of dignified progress!  Applause, loud and long, greeted the close of the address.  Buckland Warricombe was probably the only collegian who disdained to manifest approval in any way.

‘Why don’t you clap?’ asked his sister, who, girl-like, was excited to warmth of cheek and brightness of eye by the enthusiasm about her.

‘That kind of thing is out of date,’ replied the young man, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets.

As Professor of Logic and Moral Philosophy, Dr Nares began the distribution of prizes.  Buckland, in spite of his resolve to exhibit no weakness, waited with unmistakable tremor for the announcement of the leading name, which might possibly be his own.  A few words of comment prefaced the declaration:—­never had it been the Professor’s lot to review more admirable papers than those to which he had awarded the first prize.  The name of the student called upon to come forward was—­Godwin Peak.