“But I can't bear to let her think I don't care for her—I needn't do that—I can't do that.”
“I don't know what to advise. However, I believe I was wrong in thinking she cared for you so much. She will be hurt, of course—she can't help being hurt—but it won't be so bad as I used to think.”
Tom made no answer; in spite of all his good resolutions, he was a little piqued at this last speech. Hardy went on presently. “I wish she were well out of Oxford. It's a bad town for a girl to be living in, especially as a barmaid in a place which we haunt. I don't know that she will take much harm now; but it's a very trying thing for a girl of that sort to be thrown every day amongst a dozen young men above her in rank, and not one in ten of whom has any manliness about him.”
“How do you mean—no manliness?”
“I mean that a girl in her position isn't safe with us. If we had any manliness in us she would be—”
“You can't expect all men to be blocks of ice, or milksops,” said Tom, who was getting nettled.
“Don't think that I meant you,” said Hardy; “indeed I didn't. But surely, think a moment; is it a proof of manliness that the pure and weak should fear you and shrink from you? Which is the true—aye, and the brave—man, he who trembles before a woman or he before whom a woman trembles?”
“Neither,” said Tom; “but I see what you mean, and when you put it that way it's clear enough.”
“But you're wrong in saying 'neither' if you do see what I mean.” Tom was silent. “Can there be any true manliness without purity?” went on Hardy. Tom drew a deep breath but said nothing. “And where then can you point to a place where there is so little manliness as here? It makes my blood boil to see what one must see every day. There are a set of men up here, and have been ever since I can remember the place, not one of whom can look at a modest woman without making her shudder.”
“There must always be some blackguards,” said Tom.