‘I know that. He means his best. If I thought it was the best, I should cut my throat and have done with it.’
‘But, Charley, couldn’t we do something to find out, after all?’
‘Find out what, Wilfrid?’
‘The best thing, you know; what we are here for.’
‘I’m sick of it all, Wilfrid. I’ve tried till I am sick of it. If you should find out anything, you can let me know. I am busy trying not to think. I find that quite enough. If I were to think, I should go mad.’
‘Oh, Charley! I can’t bear to hear you talk like that,’ I exclaimed; but there was a glitter in his eye which I did not like, and which made me anxious to change the subject.—‘Don’t you like being here?’ I asked, in sore want of something to say.
‘Yes, well enough,’ he replied. ‘But I don’t see what’s to come of it, for I can’t work. Even if my father were a millionnaire, I couldn’t go on living on him. The sooner that is over, the better!’
He was looking down, and gnawing at that tremulous upper lip. I felt miserable.
‘I wish we were at the same college, Charley!’ I said.
‘It’s better as it is,’ he rejoined. ‘I should do you no good. You go in for reading, I suppose?’