“Surely it must be to you, Mortimer.”
“So I thought, but he says no. He says it is to you.”
“Yes, I do say so,” interposed the boy. “And I mean to say what I want to say, too, Mr. Eugene Wrayburn!”
Passing him with his eyes as if there were nothing where he stood, Eugene looked on to Bradley Headstone. With consummate indolence, he turned to Mortimer, inquiring: “And who may this other person be?”
“I am Charles Hexam’s friend,” said Bradley; “I am Charles Hexam’s schoolmaster.”
“My good sir, you should teach your pupils better manners,” returned Eugene.
Composedly smoking, he leaned an elbow on the chimneypiece, at the side of the fire, and looked at the schoolmaster. It was a cruel look, in its cold disdain of him, as a creature of no worth. The schoolmaster looked at him, and that, too, was a cruel look, though of the different kind, that it had a raging jealousy and fiery wrath in it.
Very remarkably, neither Eugene Wrayburn nor Bradley Headstone looked at all at the boy. Through the ensuing dialogue, those two, no matter who spoke, or whom was addressed, looked at each other. There was some secret, sure perception between them, which set them against one another in all ways.
“In some high respects, Mr. Eugene Wrayburn,” said Bradley, answering him with pale and quivering lips, “the natural feelings of my pupils are stronger than my teaching.”
“In most respects, I dare say,” replied Eugene, enjoying his cigar, “though whether high or low is of no importance. You have my name very correctly. Pray what is yours?”