“No, at least he hasn't called on me, I have just spoken to him.”
“He is a quiet fellow, and I daresay doesn't call on any man unless he knew something of him before.”
“Don't you?”
“Never,” said Hardy, shortly; and added after a short pause, “very few men would thank me if I did; most would think it impertinent, and I'm too proud to risk that.”
Tom was on the point of asking why; but the uncomfortable feeling which he had nearly lost came back on him.
“I suppose one very soon gets tired of the wine and supper party life, though I own I find it pleasant enough now.”
“I have never been tired,” said Hardy; “servitors are not troubled with that sort of a thing. If they were I wouldn't go unless I could return them, and that I can't afford.”
“There he goes again,” thought Tom; “why will he be throwing that old story in my face over and over again? He can't think I care about his poverty; I won't change the subject this time, at any rate.” And so he said:
“You don't mean to say it makes any real difference to a man in society up here, whether he is poor or rich; I mean, of course, if he is a gentleman and a good fellow?”
“Yes, it does—the very greatest possible. But don't take my word for it. Keep your eyes open and judge for yourself; I daresay I'm prejudiced on the subject.”