“Why, the fact is,” said Grey, hesitatingly, “that the curate of St. Peter's has set up some night schools, and wanted some help. So I have been doing what I could to help him; and really,” looking at his watch, “I must be going. I only wanted to tell you how it was I didn't come now.”
Hardy looked at Tom, who was rather taken aback by this announcement, and began to look less haughtily at the wall. He even condescended to take a short glance at his neighbor.
“It's unlucky,” said Hardy; “but do you teach every night?”
“Yes,” said Grey. “I used to do my science and history at night, you know; but I find that teaching takes so much out of me, that I'm only fit for bed now, when I get back. I'm so glad I've told you. I have wanted to do it for some time. And if you would let me come in for an hour, directly after hall, instead of later, I think I could still manage that.”
“Of course,” said Hardy, “come when you like. But it's rather hard to take you away every night, so near the examinations.”
“It is my own wish,” said Grey. “I should have been very glad if it hadn't happened just now; but as it has I must do the best I can.”
“Well, but I should like to help you. Can't I take a night or two off your hands?”
“No!” said Tom, fired with sudden enthusiasm; “it will be as bad for you, Hardy. It can't want much scholarship to teach there. Let me go. I'll take two nights a week if you'll let me.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Grey; “but I don't know how my friend might like it. That is—I mean,” he said, getting very red, “it's very kind of you, only I'm used to it; and—and they rely on me. But I really must go—good night;” and Grey went off in confusion.
As soon as the door had fairly closed, Hardy could stand it no longer, and lay back in his chair laughing till the tears ran down his cheeks. Tom, wholly unable to appreciate the joke, sat looking at him with perfect gravity.