“That's not fair, or true, or like you, Brown,” said Hardy, getting up and beginning to walk up and down the room. “You do know that that girl doesn't care a straw for the other men who go there. You do know that she is beginning to care for you.”
“You seem to know a great deal about it,” said Tom; “I don't believe you were ever there before two days ago.”
“No, I never was.”
“Then I think you needn't be quite so quick at finding fault. If there were anything I didn't wish you to see, do you think I should have taken you there? I tell you she is quite able to take care of herself.”
“So I believe,” said Hardy; “if she were a mere giddy, light girl, setting her cap at every man who came in, it wouldn't matter so much—for her at any rate. She can take care of herself well enough so far as the rest are concerned, but you know it isn't so with you. You know it now, Brown; tell the truth; anyone with half an eye can see it.”
“You seem to have made pretty good use of your eyes in these two nights, anyhow,” said Tom.
“I don't mind your sneers, Brown,” said Hardy as he tramped up and down with his arms locked behind him; “I have taken on myself to speak to you about this; I should be no true friend if I shirked it. I'm four years older than you, and have seen more of the world and of this place than you. You sha'n't go on with this folly, this sin, for want of warning.”
“So it seems,” said Tom doggedly. “Now I think I've had warning enough; suppose we drop the subject.”
Hardy stopped his walk, and turned on Tom with a look of anger. “Not yet,” he said, firmly; “you know best how and why you have done it, but you know that somehow or other you have made that girl like you.”
“Suppose I have, what then; whose business is that but mine and hers?”