"But, Tom, you don't believe what they say about me and Sarah Wilson, do you?" John Tincroft asked piteously.
"No, of course, I don't, my good fellow, and Richard doesn't believe it either. Why, you don't think we believe it, do you?"
"No, not if you say so, Tom. But I am so bewildered with your news that I don't know what to think." And John pressed his two hands against his forehead. "To think that the poor thing should be suffering through my fault!" he added.
"I don't see much fault in it, Tincroft," argued Tom Grigson. "Of course, if you had never seen Miss Wilson, this could not have happened. And if you hadn't gone up to her father's house so often, it might not have happened."
"True, true, true," groaned John.
"But as what can't be cured, must be endured, we had better drop the subject, my boy."
"Ha! I'll think about it, that will be best," said John, dreamily, as was his wont when his mind was otherwise occupied than with the exact words he was speaking.
"I don't know about thinking, dear fellow. Thinking doesn't always do good. I have been thinking all day what a blockhead I have been not to tell Dick about that horribly long bill of Dry's; but I didn't tell him, and I don't like to write directly after coming up. So I have made up my mind not to think about it all this term. I recommend the same to you. You'll forget it all the sooner through not thinking about it."
"But not thinking about Dry's bill won't pay it, Tom, will it?" asked Tincroft, gravely.