“What's the matter? Where have you been to-night? You look fierce enough to sit for a portrait of Sanguinoso Volcanoni, the bandit.”
“Been!” said Tom, sitting down on the spare Windsor chair, which he usually occupied, so hard as to make it crack again; “been! I've been to a wine party at Hendon's. Do you know any of that set?”
“No, except Grey, who came into residence in the same term with me; we have been reading for degree together. You must have seen him here sometimes in the evenings.”
“Yes, I remember; the fellow with a stiff neck, who won't look you in the face.”
“Ay, but he is a sterling man at the bottom, I can tell you.”
“Well, he wasn't there. You don't know any of the rest?”
“No.”
“And never went to any of their parties?”
“No.”
“You've had no loss, I can tell you,” said Tom, pleased that the ground was clear for him. “I never was amongst such a set of waspish, dogmatical, over-bearing fellows in my life.”