I should have preferred that they had not asked me the question, but having asked it I felt bound to answer.
“No; I’m going to tea at a fellow’s.”
“Who? The washerwoman’s?”
“No; to Redwood’s.”
I tried to pronounce the name with the unconcern of a man who is in daily communion with heroes, but I fear I betrayed my emotion. At least, their laughter made me think so.
I was instantly greeted with all sorts of mock salutations and obeisances, and, whether I liked it or not, rushed off to the faggery to be tidied up. It was in vain I struggled, and explained that Redwood was waiting for me. They would not be put off.
“You must wash your face for the credit of the Ph.C.C,” said Langrish.
“And put on a clean shirt for the credit of your wash—”
Here by a frantic effort I broke loose and made off, followed by the pack in full cry, with shouts of—
“Stop thief!”