But that did not do any good.
The next morning he wrote and posted a note of apology to James:—
Dear James—I am sorry about last night—really, I am. I will try not to make such an ass of myself again.
"Harry."
The same evening he received an answer, also through the mail. It was simply a post-card bearing the words:
All right. James.
Its curt, businesslike goodwill and the promptness of its arrival comforted him somewhat. He wisely determined to keep away from his brother for the present and let time exert what healing effect it could. When they did meet again, after some ten days' interval, no reference was made to the episode. James was cordial, very cordial. Far, far too cordial....
"Trotty," said Harry mournfully that evening; "I don't think you'd better room with me again next year. You can't afford to, Trotty. I'm a pariah, an outcast. Half the decent people in the class don't speak to me any more. You simply can't afford to know me. It'll ruin your chances."
"I wish you'd shut up," said Trotwood. "I'm trying to study."
"I mean it, Trotty. Don't pretend you don't hear, or understand. I'm giving you warning."
"Rot," said Trotty, beginning to blush. "Damned, infernal rot."