Hardy rose and took a turn or two up and down his room. He was astonished at finding himself talking so unreservedly to one of whom he knew so little, and half-wished the words recalled. He lived much alone, and thought himself morbid and too self-conscious; why should he be filling a youngster's head with puzzles? How did he know that they were thinking of the same thing?
But the spoken word cannot be recalled; it must go on its way for good or evil; and this one set the hearer staring into the ashes, and putting many things together in his head.
It was some minutes before he broke silence, but at last he gathered up his thoughts, and said, “Well, I hope I sha'n't shirk when the time comes. You don't think a fellow need shut himself up, though? I'm sure I shouldn't be any the better for that.”
“No, I don't think you would,” said Hardy.
“Because, you see,” Tom went on, waxing bolder and more confidential, “If I were to take to moping by myself, I shouldn't read as you or any sensible fellow would do; I know that well enough. I should just begin, sitting with my legs upon the mantel-piece, and looking into my own inside. I see you are laughing, but you know what mean, don't you now?”
“Yes; staring into the vacuum you were talking of just now; it all comes back to that,” said Hardy.
“Well, perhaps it does,” said Tom; “and I don't believe it does a fellow a bit of good to be thinking about himself and his own doings.”
“Only he can't help himself,” said Hardy. “Let him throw himself as he will into all that is going on up here, after all he must be alone for a great part of his time—all night at any rate—and when he gets his oak sported, it's all up with him. He must be looking more or less into his own inside, as you call it.”
“Then I hope he won't find it as ugly a business as I do. If he does, I'm sure he can't be worse employed.”
“I don't know that,” said Hardy; “he can't learn anything worth learning in any other way.”