“Well, good night, then,” said Grey, and went on, leaving Tom standing in the porch. On the way up from the school he had almost made up his mind to go to Hardy's rooms that night. He longed and yet feared to do so; and, on the whole, was not sorry for an excuse. Their first meeting must be alone, and it would be a very embarrassing one, for him at any rate. Grey, he hoped, would tell Hardy of his visit to the school, and that would show that he was coming round, and make the meeting easier. His talk with Grey, too, had removed one great cause of uneasiness from his mind. It was now quite clear that he had no suspicion of the quarrel, and, if Hardy had not told him, no one else could know of it.
Altogether, he strolled into the quadrangle a happier and sounder man than he had been since his first visit to “The Choughs”, and looked up and answered with his old look and voice when he heard his name called from one of the first-floor windows.
The hailer was Drysdale, who was leaning out in lounging coat and velvet cap, and enjoying a cigar as usual, in the midst of the flowers of his hanging garden.
“You've heard the good news, I suppose?”
“No, what do you mean?”
“Why, Blake has got the Latin verse.”
“Hurrah! I'm so glad.”
“Come up and have a weed.”
Tom ran up the staircase and into Drysdale's rooms, and was leaning out of the window at his side in another minute.
“What does he get by it?” he said, “do you know?”