“That’s right!” cried Hector. “That’s like dear old Alan! I shall get back to the doctor and Margaret after all. Mind you write to the captain, Harry!”
Hector was quite inspirited and ready to return to the others, but Harry paused to express a hope that he did not let Tom make such a fool of himself as he had done to-day.
“Not he,” said Hector. “He is liked as much as any one in the house—he has been five times sent up for good. See there in the Eton list! He is a real clever fellow.”
“Ay, but what’s the good of all that, if you let him be a puppy?”
“Oh, he’ll be cured. A fellow that has been a sloven always is a puppy for a bit,” said Hector philosophically.
Norman was meantime taking Tom to task for these same airs, and, hearing it was from the desire to see his brother respectable—Stoneborough men never cared for what they looked like, and he must have Harry do himself credit.
“You need not fear,” said Norman. “He did not require Eton to make him a gentleman. How now? Why, Tom, old man, you are not taking that to heart? That’s all over long ago.”
For that black spot in his life had never passed out of the lad’s memory, and it might be from the lurking want of self-respect that there was about him so much of self-assertion, in attention to trifles. He was very reserved, and no one except Norman had ever found the way to anything like confidence, and Norman had vexed him by the proposal he had made in the holidays.
He made no answer, but stood looking at Norman with an odd undecided gaze.
“Well, what now, old fellow?” said Norman, half fearing “that” might not be absolutely over. “One would think you were not glad to see Harry.”