"He said it was—he used a strong term, and a vulgar one, Mi. Tincroft; he said—well, I had better not repeat his words. But the long and short of it is—if you will take my advice, you will take your constitutionals, as you Oxford men call them, in another direction in future, dear friend."
"Thank ye, Mr. Grigson, thank ye. I'll think about it," said John. "No more, thank you," he added, when the decanter was pushed towards him.
John Tincroft left the dinner-table in greater confusion of mind than ever. He should have to leave the vicinity of High Beech, that was determined on; but he had not yet had courage to make his resolution known. He had been living in a fool's paradise the last month, no doubt; and the worst of it was that, when awakened out of his dream, he was unreasonably angry with those who had roused him. And yet, to show this would be to acknowledge how necessary their friendly offices had been.
Fortunately for him, the next morning's post brought a letter from a lawyer in Oxford who was engaged in his Chancery affair, which spoke of a personal consultation being desirable at some early date. And though John had an instinctive idea that the appointment could have no further result than that of extracting a few more guineas from his attenuated purse, it, at any rate, furnished him with a valid reason for an immediate return to Oxford.
"Make him wait your convenience, Tincroft," said Mr. Grigson, when John laid the letter on the breakfast-table.
"I think I had better go," said John.
"You will give us another week of your society, at least?" continued the host.
But John was firm. He must leave on the following day.
"We shall be sorry to lose you;" rejoined Grigson, "but of course—"
"Necessitas non habet legem," put in Tom, lugubriously, but glad, nevertheless, to air his classical attainments.