It was a stab that the blood followed, in its rush to Bradley Headstone’s face, as swiftly as if it had been dealt with a dagger. “What do you mean by that?” was as much as he could utter.
“A natural ambition enough,” said Eugene, coolly. “Far be it from me to say otherwise. The sister who is something too much upon your lips, perhaps—is so very different from all the associations to which she had been used, and from all the low obscure people about her, that it is a very natural ambition.”
“Do you throw my obscurity in my teeth, Mr. Wrayburn?”
“That can hardly be, for I know nothing concerning it, Schoolmaster, and seek to know nothing.”
“You reproach me with my origin,” said Bradley Headstone; “you cast insinuations at my bringing-up. But I tell you, sir, I have worked my way onward, out of both and in spite of both, and have a right to be considered a better man than you, with better reasons for being proud.”
“How I can reproach you with what is not within my knowledge, or how I can cast stones that were never in my hand, is a problem for the ingenuity of a schoolmaster to prove,” returned Eugene. “Is that all?”
“No, sir. If you suppose that boy—”
“Who really will be tired of waiting,” said Eugene, politely.
“If you suppose that boy to be friendless, Mr. Wrayburn, you deceive yourself. I am his friend, and you shall find me so.”
“And you will find him on the stairs,” remarked Eugene.
“You may have promised yourself, sir, that you could do what you chose here, because you had to deal with a mere boy, inexperienced,