“Oh, you mean Russell,” said Tichborne: “well, I was going to tell you, I called on him again this morning, and found him in his rooms. In fact, I almost followed him in after lecture; for I confess I had some little curiosity to find out what he was made of!”
“And did you find out?”—“What sort of a fellow is he?” asked half-a-dozen voices at once; for, to say the truth, the curiosity which Tichborne had just confessed had been pretty generally felt, even among those who usually affected a dignified disregard of all matters concerning the nature and habits of freshmen.
“I sat with him for about twenty minutes; indeed, I should have staid longer, for I rather liked the lad; but he seemed anxious to get rid of me. I can’t make him out at all, though. I wanted him to come here to-night, but he positively would not, though he didn’t pretend to have any other engagement: he said he never, or seldom, drank wine.”
“Not drink wine!” interrupted Savile. “I always said he was some low fellow!”
“I have known some low fellows drink their skins full of wine, though; especially at other men’s expense,” said Tichborne, who was evidently not pleased with the remark; “and Russell is not a low fellow by any means.”
“Well, well,” replied Savile, whose good-humour was imperturbable—“if you say so, there’s an end of it: all I mean to say is, I can’t conceive any man not drinking wine, unless for the simple reason that he prefers brandy-and-water, and that I do call low. However, you’ll excuse my helping myself to another glass of this particularly good claret, Tichborne, though it is at your expense: indeed, the only use of you gentlemen-commoners, that I am aware of, is to give us a taste of the senior common-room wine now and then. They do manage to get it good there, certainly. I wish they would give out a few dozens as prizes at collections; it would do us a great deal more good than a Russia-leather book with the college arms on it. I don’t know that I shouldn’t take to reading in that case.”
“Drink a dozen of it, old fellow, if you can,” said Tichborne. “But really I am sorry we couldn’t get Russell here this evening; I think he would be rather an acquisition, if he could be drawn out. As to his not drinking wine, that’s a matter of taste; and he is not very likely to corrupt the good old principles of the college on that point. But he must please himself.”
“What does he do with himself?” said one of the party—“read?”
“Why he didn’t talk about reading, as most of our literary freshmen do, which might perhaps lead one to suppose he really was something of a scholar; still, I doubt if he is what you call a reading man; I know he belongs to the Thucydides lecture, and I have never seen him there but once.”
“Ah!” said Savile, with a sigh, “that’s another privilege of yours I had forgotten, which is rather enviable; you can cut lectures when you like, without getting a thundering imposition. Where does this man Russell live?”