sires. 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 must learn to like the Demon," Desmond continued, as they moved on.
Then, as John said nothing, he added quickly, "He and I have made up our
minds not to try for remove this term. You see, next term is the
joll