“Nothing.”
“Look here, Tod: we should have gone on as straightly and steadily as need be but for her. As it is, you are wasting your time and getting out of the way of work. What’s going to be the end of it?”
“Don’t know myself, Johnny.”
“Do you ever ask yourself?”
“Where’s the use of asking?” he returned, after a pause. “If I ask it of myself at night, I forget it by the morning.”
“Pull up at once, Tod. You’d be in time.”
“Yes, now: don’t know that I shall be much longer,” said Tod candidly. He was in a soft mood that night; an unusual thing with him. “Some awful complication may come of it: a few writs or something.”
“Sophie Chalk can’t do you any good, Tod.”
“She has not done me any harm.”
“Yes she has. She has unsettled you from the work that you came to Oxford to do; and the play in her rooms has caused you to run into debt that you don’t know how to get out of: it’s nearly as much harm as she can do you.”