“I suppose he has made you all the more set upon that mad notion of yours,” said Tom.
“So far as making me feel that that part of the world has a strong claim on us,” replied Norman.
“I’m sure you don’t look as if you found your pleasure in it,” cried Tom.
“Pleasure is not what I seek,” said Norman.
“What is the matter with you?” said Tom. “You said I did not seem rejoiced—you look worse, I am sure.” Tom put his arm on Norman’s shoulder, and looked solicitously at him—demonstrations of affection very rare with him.
“I wonder which would really make you happiest, to have your own way, and go to these black villains—”
“Remember, that but for others who have done so, Harry—”
“Pshaw,” said Tom, rubbing some invisible dust from his coat sleeve. “If it would keep you at home, I would say I never would hear of doctoring.”
“I thought you had said so.”
“What’s the use of my coming here, if I’m to be a country doctor?”