“Yes; but unluckily the blackguards set the fashion, and give the tone to public opinion. I'm sure both of us have seen enough to know perfectly well that up here, amongst us undergraduates, men who are deliberately and avowedly profligates, are rather admired and courted,—are said to know the world, and all that,—while a man who tries to lead a pure life, and makes no secret of it, is openly sneered at by them, looked down on more or less by the great mass of men, and, to use the word you used just now, thought a milksop by almost all.”
“I don't think it so bad as that,” said Tom. “There are many men who would respect him, though they might not be able to follow him.”
“Of course, I never meant that there are not many such, but they don't set the fashion. I am sure I'm right. Let us try it by the best test. Haven't you and I in our secret hearts this cursed feeling, that the sort of man we are talking about is a milksop?”
After a moment's thought, Tom answered, “I am afraid I have, but I really am thoroughly ashamed of it now, Hardy. But you haven't it. If you had it you could never have spoken to me as you have.”
“I beg your pardon. No man is more open than I to the bad influences of any place he lives in. God knows I am even as other men, and worse; for I have been taught ever since I could speak, that the crown of all real manliness, of all Christian manliness, is purity.”
Neither of the two spoke for some minutes. Then Hardy looked at his watch—
“Past eleven,” he said; “I must do some work. Well, Brown, this will be a day to be remembered in my calendar.”
Tom wrung his hand, but did not venture to reply.
As he got to the door, however, he turned back, and said,—
“Do you think I ought to write to her?”