“Drysdale, I sha'n't go with you to Abingdon fair to-morrow.”
“Hullo! what, has the lovely Patty thrown you over?” said Drysdale, turning from the cupboard, and resuming his lounge on the sofa.
“No.” he sank back into the chair, on the arms of which his elbows rested, and put his hands up before his face, pressing them against his burning temples. Drysdale looked at him hard, but said nothing; and there was a dead silence of a minute or so, broken only by Tom's heavy breathing, which he labored in vain to control.
“No,” he repeated at last, and the remaining words came out slowly as they were trying to steady themselves, “but, by God, Drysdale I can't take her with you, and that—” a dead pause.
“The young lady you met to-night, eh?”
Tom nodded, but said nothing.
“Well, old fellow,” said Drysdale, “now you've made up your mind, I tell you, I'm devilish glad of it. I'm no saint, as you know, but I think it would have been a d—d shame if you had taken her with us.”
“Thank you,” said Tom, and pressed his fingers tighter on his forehead; and he did feel thankful for the words, though coming from such a man, they went into him like coals of fire.
Again there was a long pause, Tom sitting as before.
Drysdale got up and strolled up and down his room, with his hands in the pockets of his silk-lined lounging coat, taking at each turn a steady look at the other. Presently he stopped, and took his cigar out of his mouth. “I say, Brown,” he said, after another minute's contemplation of the figure before him, which bore such an unmistakable impress of wretchedness, that it made him quite uncomfortable, “why don't you cut that concern?”