“I dare say. He is impudent enough for anything,” said Tom.
“But who is he?”
“Oh, a rascally fellow who sells bad cigars and worse wine.”
Tom's equanimity was much shaken by the apparition of the Jew. The remembrance of the bill scene at the Public house in the Corn-market, and the unsatisfactory prospect in that matter, with Blake plucked and Drysdale no longer a member of the University, and utterly careless as to his liabilities, came across him, and made him silent and absent.
He answered at hazard to his companion's remarks for the next minute or two, until after some particularly inappropriate reply, she turned her head and looked at him for a moment with steady wide open eyes, which brought him to himself, or rather drove him into himself, in no time.
“I really beg your pardon,” he said; “I was very rude, I fear. It is so strange to me to be walking here with ladies. What were you saying?”
“Nothing of any consequence—I really forget. But it is a very strange thing for you to walk with ladies here?”
“Strange! I should think it was! I have never seen a lady that I knew up here, till you came.”
“Indeed! but there must be plenty of ladies living in Oxford?”
“I don't believe there are. At least, we never see them,”