“Oh, surely never that,” said Westby urbanely. “Irritated perhaps, but
not mad—never lacking in self-control.”

Westby, thinking himself safe, ventured upon his humorous wink to Blake
and the others who were grinning; Lawrence intercepted it and at once
fixed Westby with a penetrating gaze.

Westby colored and looked down; Lawrence held his eyes on him until
Westby looked up and then, in even greater embarrassment under this
prolonged scrutiny, down again. Then Lawrence turned to his brother.

“Tell me, Irv,” he said in a tone that simply brushed aside as
non-existent everybody else at the table—just as if he and his brother
were talking together alone, “what sort of kids do you have to look
after in your dormitory, anyhow?”

Irving’s lip twitched with amusement; Westby, still scarlet, was looking
at his plate. “Oh, a pretty good sort—but they’re Sixth Formers, you
know—not kids.”

“Pretty fresh, are they—trying to show off a good deal and be funny?”

“Oh, one or two only; still, even they aren’t bad.”

Lawrence paid no further attention to Westby. Now and then he spoke to
Carroll and to Blake, but most of his conversation—and it dealt with the
sort of college life about which boys liked to hear, and about which
Irving had never been able to enlighten them—he addressed directly to
his brother.