"Well, you can easily guess," Coke answered, never doubting that Tom had heard what was forward, and had posted from Cambridge in pursuit of his sister. "Have you news? That's the point."
Tom had only his own affair in his mind. He wondered how much the other knew, and more than half suspected that he was being roasted. So "News?" he faltered. "What sort of news, sir?" He had known Sir Hervey all his life, and still felt for him the respect which a lad feels for the man of experience and fashion.
Coke stared at him. "What sort of news?" he exclaimed. "It isn't possible you don't know what has happened, boy?" Then, seeing that the person who had come up with Tom was at his elbow, listening, "Is this fellow with you?" he cried angrily. "If so, bid him stand back a little."
"Yes, he's with me," Tom answered, sheepishly; and turning to the lad, who was laden with a great nosegay of flowers as well as a paper parcel from which some white Spitalfields ribbons protruded, he bade him go on. "Go on," he said, "I'll follow you. The last house on the right."
Sir Hervey heard, and stared afresh. "What?" he cried. "Grocott's?"
Tom winced, and changed his feet uneasily, cursing his folly in letting out so much. "It's only something that--that he's taking there," he muttered.
"But you know about your sister?"
"Sophia?" Tom blurted out. "Oh, she's all right. She's all right, I tell you. You need not trouble about her."
"Indeed? Then where is she? Where is she, man? Out with it."
"She's with me."