If it was dancing in the season, Jack Meredith danced, and no man rivalled him.
If it was grouse shooting, Jack Meredith held his gun as straight as any man.

All the polite accomplishments in their season seemed to come to him without effort; but there was in all the same lack of heart--that utter want of enthusiasm which imparted to his presence a subtle suggestion of boredom.

The truth was that he was over-educated.

Sir John had taught him how to live and move and have his being with so minute a care, so keen an insight, that existence seemed to be nothing but an habitual observance of set rules.
Sir John called him sarcastically his "bright boy," his "hopeful offspring," the "pride of his old age"; but somewhere in his shrivelled old heart there nestled an unbounded love and admiration for his son.
Jack had assimilated his teaching with a wonderful aptitude.

He had as nearly as possible realised Sir John Meredith's idea of what an English gentleman should be, and the old aristocrat's standard was uncompromisingly high.