“Good-bye, then;” and Tom shook hands, and, leaving the coach to get packed with portmanteaus, terriers, and undergraduates, he and Hardy walked off towards the High-street.
“So you're not going to-day?” Hardy said.
“No; two or three of my old schoolfellows are coming up to stand for scholarships, and I must be here to receive them. But it's very unlucky; I should have liked so to have been at Henley.”
“Look, their carriage is already at the door,” said Hardy, pointing up High-street, into which they now turned. There were a dozen postchaises and carriages loading in front of different houses in the street, and amongst them Mr. Winter's old-fashioned travelling barouche.
“So it is,” said Tom; “that's some of uncle's fidgetiness; but he will be sure to dawdle at the last. Come along in.”
“Don't you think I had better stay downstairs? It may seem intrusive.”
“No, come along. Why, they asked you to come and see the last of them last night, didn't they?”
Hardy did not require any further urging to induce him to follow his inclination; so the two went up together. The breakfast things were still on the table, at which sat Miss Winter, in her bonnet, employed in examining the bill, with the assistance of Mary, who leant over her shoulder. She looked up as they entered.
“Oh! I'm so glad you are come. Poor Katie is so bothered, and I can't help her. Do look at the bill; is it all right?”
“Shall I, Katie?”