“How do you mean?”
“Why, you needn't go to them.”
“Oh, one can't help going to them. What else is there to do!”
Tom waited for an answer, but his companion only nodded to show that he was listening, as he strolled on down the path, looking at the view.
“I can say what I feel to you, Hardy. I always have been able, and it's such a comfort to me now. It was you who put these sort of thoughts into my head, too, so you ought to sympathize with me.”
“I do, my dear fellow. But you'll be all right again in a few days.”
“Don't you believe it. It isn't only what you seem to think, Hardy. You don't know me so well as I do you, after all. No, I'm not just love-sick, and hipped because I can't go and see her. That has something to do with it, I dare say, but it's the sort of shut-up selfish life we lead here that I can't stand. A man isn't meant to live only with fellows like himself, with good allowances paid quarterly, and no care but how to amuse themselves. One is old enough for something better than that, I'm sure.”
“No doubt,” said Hardy with provoking taciturnity.
“And the moment one tries to break through it, one only gets into trouble.”
“Yes, there's a good deal of danger of that, certainly,” said Hardy.