Tom and Manvers met later in the day, and Tom retailed his decision of the morning.
“We were both utterly wrong,” he said. “It makes me grow hot all over to think of what we said last night. I acted just as a man of that class which I detest so much would act.”
“I drew the inferences demanded by common sense,” said Manvers, who was not convinced.
“By your common sense!” rejoined Tom. “You can’t talk of common sense as a constant quality; it varies according to the man who exercises it. There are certain occasions when one’s inferences are based on instinct, which is a much surer thing than common sense. One of these occasions occurred this morning.”
“Ah, but your instinct may be wrong, and nobody can convince you of it. It is a much more dangerous thing to trust to. If you base your action on reasons which can be talked out lengthways, you can make certain whether you are right or not.”
Tom rose with some irritation.
“My dear fellow, I don’t believe you know what I mean by instincts,” he said, and strolled away.
Manvers found a certain delicate pleasure in this exhibition of human weakness on the part of Tom, and the reason by which he accounted for it in his own mind was clearly a very likely one. He argued that Tom was not quite so certain that he was right as he had hoped, and such a state of mind, Manvers allowed, was very galling.
Meantime Maud had gone home, lunched with her brother, and announced that she was going home in about a fortnight in company with Tom. Arthur Wrexham had a vague feeling that this was not quite proper, and indicated it.
“Is that the sort of thing people do now?” he asked. “I really only ask for information.”