“Ugly old fellow, Patty? Why, you mean Hardy. He's a great friend of mine, and you must like him for my sake.”
“I'm sure I won't. I don't like him a bit; he looks so cross at me.”
“It's all your fancy. There now, good-night.”
“You shan't go, however, till you've given me that handkerchief. You promised it me if you got head of the river.”
“Oh! you little story-teller. Why, they are my college colors. I wouldn't part with them for worlds. I'll give you a lock of my hair, and the prettiest handkerchief you can find in Oxford; but not this.”
“But I will have it and you did promise me it,” she said, and put up her hands suddenly, and untied the bow of Tom's neck-handkerchief. He caught her wrists in his hands, and looked down into her eyes, in which, if he saw a little pique at his going, he saw other things which stirred in him strange feelings of triumph and tenderness.
“Well, then you shall pay for it, anyhow,” he said.—Why, need I tell what followed?—There was a little struggle; a “Go along, do, Mr. Brown;” and the next minute Tom minus his handkerchief, was hurrying after his companions; and Patty was watching him from the door, and setting her cap to rights. Then she turned and went back into the bar, and started, and turned red, as she saw Hardy there, still standing in the further corner, opposite her aunt. He finished his glass of ale as she came in, and then passed out wishing them “Good-night.”
“Why aunt” she said, “I thought they were all gone. Who was that sour-looking man?”
“He seems a nice quiet gentleman, my dear,” said the old lady, looking up. “I'm sure he's much better than those ones as make so much racket in the bar. But where have you been, Patty?”
“Oh, to the commercial room, aunt. Won't you have a game at cribbage?” and Patty took up the cards and set the board out, the old lady looking at her doubtfully all the time through her spectacles. She was beginning to wish that the college gentlemen wouldn't come so much to the house, though they were very good customers.