eceived tender love, absolute trust, the traditions of a great family
whose name was part of English history, an exquisite refinement, and,
with these, the gratification of all reasonable desires. And this
magnificent upbringing shone out of his radiant face, the inexpressible
charm of youth unspotted--white. Scaife's upbringing, of which you
shall know more presently, had been far different, and yet he, the
cynic and the unclean, recognized the God in Harry Desmond. He had
not, for instance, told Desmond of the nature of that "tight" place; he
had kept a guard over his tongue; he had interposed his own strong will
between his friend and such attention as a boy of Desmond's
attractiveness might provoke from Lovell senior and the like. It is
true that Scaife was well aware that without these precautions he would
have lost his friend; none the less, above and beyond this
consciousness hovered the higher, more subtle intuition that the good
in Desmond was something not lightly to be tampered with, something
awe-inspiring; the more so because, poor fellow! he had never
encountered it before.

Desmond stood still, with his eyes upon John's discoloured face. Not
the least of Caesar's charms was his lack of self-consciousness. Now,
for the first time, he tried to see himself as John saw him--on a
pedestal. And so strong was John's ideal that in a sense Desmond did
catch a glimpse of himself as John saw him. And then followed a rapid
comparison, first between the real and the ideal, and secondly between
himself and Scaife. His face broke into a smile.

"Why, Verney," he exclaimed, "you mustn't turn me into a sort of Golden
Calf. And as for Scaife not being good enough for me, why, he's miles
ahead of me in everything. He's cleverer, better at games, ten
thousand times better looking, and one day he'll be a big power, and I
shall always be a poor man. Why, I--I don't mind telling you that I
used to keep out of Scaife's way, although he was always awfully civil
to me, because he has so much and I so little."

"He's not half good enough for you," repeated John, with the Verney
obstinacy. Unwittingly he slightly emphasized the "good."

"Good? Do you mean 'pi'? He's not _that_, thank the Lord!"

This made John laugh, and Desmond joined in. Now they were Harrow boys
again, within measurable distance of the Yard, although still in the
shadow of the Spire. The Demon described as "pi" tickled their ribs.

"You mus