It was no part of Pledge’s manner to appear inquisitive. He saw there was a mystery, and knew better than to appear in the slightest degree anxious to solve it.
He had as yet heard nothing of the newly-formed alliance in low life, and attributed Heathcote’s uncommunicativeness either to shame for some discreditable proceeding, or else to passing ill-humour. In either case he reckoned on knowing all about it before long.
Heathcote was very uncomfortable. It had not occurred to him till just now that Pledge would resent the return of his allegiance to Dick as an act of insubordination. Not that that would keep him from Dick; but Heathcote, who had hitherto admired his old patron as a friend, by no means relished the idea of having him an enemy. He therefore felt that the best thing he could do was to hold his tongue, and if, after all, a row was to come, well—it would have to come.
He sat down to do his own preparation, and for half an hour neither student broke the silence.
Then Pledge, who had never known his protégé silent for so long together before, felt there must be something the matter which he ought to be aware of.
So he leaned back in his chair and stretched himself.
“You’re a nice boy, George!” said he, laughing; “you’ve been sitting half an hour with your pen in your hand and haven’t written a word.”
Georgie coloured up.
“It’s a stiff bit of prose,” said he.
“So it seems. Suppose I do it for you?”