‘My dear Augustus!’ said Miss Pecksniff, in a low voice. ‘I verily believe you have said that fifty thousand times, in my hearing. What a Prose you are!’
This was succeeded by some trifling love passages, which appeared to originate with, if not to be wholly carried on by Miss Pecksniff. At any rate, Mr Moddle was much slower in his responses than is customary with young lovers, and exhibited a lowness of spirits which was quite oppressive.
He did not improve at all when Tom and he were in the streets, but sighed so dismally that it was dreadful to hear him. As a means of cheering him up, Tom told him that he wished him joy.
‘Joy!’ cried Moddle. ‘Ha, ha!’
‘What an extraordinary young man!’ thought Tom.
‘The Scorner has not set his seal upon you. you care what becomes of you?’ said Moddle.
Tom admitted that it was a subject in which he certainly felt some interest.
‘I don’t,’ said Mr Moddle. ‘The Elements may have me when they please. I’m ready.’
Tom inferred from these, and other expressions of the same nature, that he was jealous. Therefore he allowed him to take his own course; which was such a gloomy one, that he felt a load removed from his mind when they parted company at the gate of Furnival’s Inn.
It was now a couple of hours past John Westlock’s dinner-time; and he was walking up and down the room, quite anxious for Tom’s safety. The table was spread; the wine was carefully decanted; and the dinner smelt delicious.