Blanche to him with the list of her guests at the dinner. "For your
uncle's approval, my dear, as head of the family."

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,