“If you will let me be your companion.”
“I shall be most happy,” said Tom, colouring with gratification, such as he might not have felt, had he known that he was chosen for his innocence.
He took a passing glimpse at his neck-tie, screwed up the nap of his glossy hat to the perfection of its central point, armed himself with a knowing little stick, and hurried his fair companion out by the back door, as much afraid of losing the glory of being her sole protector as she was of falling in with an escort of as much consequence, in other eyes, as was Mr. Thomas in his own.
She knew him less than any of the rest, and her first amusement was keeping silence to punish him for complaining of clack; but he explained that he did not mean quiet, sensible conversation—he only referred to those foolish women’s raptures over the gabble they had been hearing at the Town Hall.
She exclaimed, whereupon he began to criticise the speakers with a good deal of acuteness, exposing the weak points, but magnanimously owning that it was tolerable for the style of thing, and might go down at Stoneborough.
“I wonder you did not stay away as Harry did.”
“I thought it would be marked,” observed the thread-paper Tom, as if he had been at least county member.
“You did quite right,” said Meta, really thinking so.
“I wished to hear Dr. Spencer, too,” said Tom. “There is a man who does know how to speak! He has seen something of the world, and knows what he is talking of.”
“But he did not come near Norman.”