He remembered certain words which had shown a soft spot in Mrs. Cormack's heart. Harry did not know that she had grieved to hear him pacing up and down.
"You'll come, Tom? I know, of course, that you've a right to be angry, and to say you won't, and all that. But I know you won't do it. She's not well, Tom; and I—I can't always understand her. You used to understand her, Tom. She used to like your chaff, you know."
Tom would not enter on that. He pressed Harry's hand, answering,
"Of course, I'll come."
"Bring all this with you," cried Harry. "I shan't take up your time. You must stick to your own work as much as you like. When'll you come, Tom?"
"Why, to-morrow," said Tom Loring.
"Not now?"
"I might, if you like," smiled Tom.
"That's right, old chap. You can send round for your things. Bring a bag, and come to-night. Your room's there for you. I told them to keep it ready. Damn it, Tom, I thought things would come straight some day, and I kept it ready."
Had things come straight? Tom did not know.