But the name so offensive to young Warricombe was the first that issued from the Professor’s lips.  Beginning with the competition for a special classical prize, Professor Wotherspoon announced that the honours had fallen to ‘Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers.’

’That young man is not badly supplied with brains, say what you will,’ remarked Mr. Warricombe.

Upon Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers keen attention was directed; every pair of female eyes studied his graces, and female hands had a great part in the applause that greeted his arising.  Applause different in kind from that hitherto bestowed; less noisy, but implying, one felt, a more delicate spirit of commendation.  With perfect self-command, with singular facial decorum, with a walk which betokened elegant athleticism and safely skirted the bounds of foppery, Mr. Chilvers discharged the duty he was conscious of owing to a multitude of kinsfolk, friends, admirers.  You would have detected something clerical in the young man’s air.  It became the son of a popular clergyman, and gave promise of notable aptitude for the sacred career to which Bruno Leathwaite, as was well understood, already had designed himself.  In matters sartorial he presented a high ideal to his fellow-students; this seemly attention to externals, and the delicate glow of health discernible through the golden down of his cheeks, testified the compatibility of hard study and social observances.  Bruno had been heard to say that the one thing it behoved Whitelaw to keep carefully in mind was the preservation of ‘tone’, a quality far less easy to cultivate than mere academic excellence.

‘How clever he must be!’ purred Mrs. Warricombe.  ’If he lives, he will some day be an archbishop.’

Buckland was leaning back with his eyes closed, disgusted at the spectacle.  Nor did he move when Professor Wotherspoon’s voice made the next announcement.

’In Senior Greek, the first prize is taken by—­Bruno Leathwaite Chilvers.’

‘Then I suppose Peak comes second,’ muttered Buckland.

So it proved.  Summoned to receive the inferior prize, Godwin Peak, his countenance harsher than before, his eyes cast down, moved ungracefully to the estrade.  And during the next half-hour this twofold exhibition was several times repeated.  In Senior Latin, in Modern and Ancient History, in English Language and Literature, in French, first sounded the name of Chilvers, whilst to the second award was invariably attached that of Peak.  Mrs. Warricombe’s delight expressed itself in every permissible way:  on each occasion she exclaimed, ‘How clever he is!’ Sidwell cast frequent glances at her brother, in whom a shrewder eye could have divined conflict of feelings—­disgust at the glorification of Chilvers and involuntary pleasure in the successive defeats of his own conqueror in Philosophy.  Buckland’s was by no means an ignoble face; venial malice did not ultimately prevail in him.

‘It’s Peak’s own fault,’ he declared at length, with vexation.  ’Chilvers stuck to the subjects of his course.  Peak has been taking up half-a-dozen extras, and they’ve done for him.  I shouldn’t wonder if he went in for the Poem and the Essay:  I know he was thinking about both.’