While Mr. Winter was making his acknowledgments to Hardy, and being helped by him into the most comfortable seat in the carriage, Tom was making tender adieus to the two young ladies behind, and even succeeded in keeping a rose-bud which Mary was carrying, when they took their seats. She parted from it half-laughingly, and the post-boy cracked his whip and the barouche went lumbering along High-street. Hardy and Tom watched it until it turned down St. Aldate's towards Folly Bridge, the latter waving his hand as it disappeared, and then they turned and strolled slowly away side by side in silence. The sight of all the other departures increased the uncomfortable, unsatisfied feeling which that of his own relatives had already produced in Tom's mind.
“Well, it isn't lively stopping up here when everybody is going, is it? What is one to do?”
“Oughtn't you to be looking after your friends who are coming up to try for the scholarships?”
“No, they won't be up till afternoon, by coach.”
“Shall we go down to the river, then?”
“No, it would be miserable. Hullo, look here, what's up?”
The cause of Tom's astonishment was the appearance of the usual procession of university beadles carrying silver-headed maces, and escorting the Vice-Chancellor towards St. Mary's.
“Why, the bells are going for service; there must be a university sermon. Is it a saint's day?”
“Where's the congregation to come from? Why, half Oxford is off by this time, and those that are left won't want to be hearing sermons.”
“Well, I don't know. A good many seem to be going. I wonder who is to preach?”