“I haven’t the faintest idea. Sheer asininity on both our parts, I reckon. I’ve started over to Kit’s rooms a hundred times this term, I should say, and turned back.”
“All serene with the rest of the crowd?”
“Oh, absolutely. After the Finch affair last term everybody except Kit went out of their way to be decent. Even Tack, whom I had been rather nasty to.”
“Weren’t you a bit sore because Kit didn’t go out of his way to be decent?”
“Why, yes—naturally; I suppose I was.”
“Well, listen to words of wisdom—it is all nonsense, blooming idiotic nonsense. You quarreled about Finch. He’s gone. What’s become of that little shaver, by the way?”
“Finch—oh, he is well now, I reckon; they have taken him away—to the mountains or some place. He is ever so much better in every way than before he was ill—it seemed to need that tremendous break and sickness to get him straight. I have an idea that the Doctor,—good old chap, the Head!—will keep him on here another year, and then put him to work, without trying for college.”
“You carried the guardian angelship business through, didn’t you? did it from the bottom up—as I hoped you would.”
“Oh, I tried.... By Jove, Reg,” Tony exclaimed, looking at his watch, “it’s nearly six; we’ll have to wander if we want to get back in time for supper. You are staying over, of course, for the game and dance to-morrow?”
“Of course.”