“You don’t mean to say,” said Tom, “that it makes any real difference to a man in society here in Oxford, 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.”

“Well, I sha’n’t believe it if I can help it,” said Tom; “you know you said just now that you never called on any one. Perhaps you don’t give men a fair chance. They might be glad to know you if you would let them, and may think it’s your fault that they don’t.”

“Very possibly,” said Hardy; “I tell you not to take my word for it.”

“It upsets all one’s ideas so,” went on Tom, “why, Oxford ought to be the place in England where money should count for nothing. Surely, now, such a man as Jervis, our captain, has more influence than all the rich men in the college put together, and is more looked up to?”

“He’s one of a thousand,” said Hardy; “handsome, strong, good-tempered, clever, and up to everything. Besides, he isn’t a poor man; and mind, I don’t say that if he were he wouldn’t be where he is. I am speaking of the rule, and not of the exceptions.”

Here Hardy’s scout came in to say that the Dean wanted to speak to him. So he put on his cap and gown, and Tom rose also.

“Well, I’m sorry to turn you out,” said Hardy, “and I’m afraid I’ve been very surly and made you very uncomfortable. You won’t come back again in a hurry.”

“Indeed I will though, if you will let me,” said Tom; “I have enjoyed my evening immensely.”

“Then come whenever you like,” said Hardy.

“But I am afraid of interfering with your reading,” said Tom.

“Oh, you needn’t mind that; I have plenty of time on my hands; besides, one can’t read all night, and from eight till ten you’ll find me generally idle.”

“Then you’ll see me often enough. But promise, now, to turn me out whenever I am in the way.”

“Very well,” said Hardy, laughing; and so they parted for the time.

Some twenty minutes afterwards Hardy returned to his room after his interview with the Dean, who merely wanted to speak to him about some matter of college business. He flung his cap and gown on to the sofa, and began to walk up and down his room, at first hurriedly, but soon with his usual regular tramp. However expressive a man’s face may be, and however well you may know it, it is simply nonsense to say that you can tell what he is thinking about by looking at it, as many of us are apt to boast. Still more absurd would it be to expect readers to know what Hardy is thinking about, when they have never had the advantage of seeing his face even in a photograph. Wherefore, it would seem that the author is bound on such occasions to put his readers on equal vantage-ground with himself, and not only to tell them what a man does, but, so far as may be, what he is thinking about also.

His first thought, then, was one of pleasure at having been sought out by one who seemed to be just the sort of friend he would like to have. He contrasted our hero with the few men with whom he generally lived, and for some of whom he had a high esteem—whose only idea of exercise was a two hours’ constitutional walk in the afternoons, and whose life was chiefly spent over books and behind sported oaks—and felt that this was more of a man after his own heart. Then came doubts whether his new friend would draw back when he had been up a little longer, and knew more of the place. At any rate he had said and done nothing to tempt him; “if he pushes the acquaintance—and I think he will—it will be because he likes me for myself. And I can do him good too, I feel sure,” he went on, as he ran over rapidly his own life for the last three years. “Perhaps he won’t flounder into all the sloughs that I have had to drag through; he will get too much of the healthy, active life up here for that, which I never had; but some of them he must get into. All the companionship of boating and cricketing, and wine-parties and supper-parties, and all the reading in the world won’t keep him from many a long hour of mawkishness, and discontent, and emptiness of heart; he feels that already himself. Am I sure of that, though? I may be only reading myself into him. At any rate, why should I have helped to trouble him before the time? Was that a friend’s part? Well, he must face it, and the sooner the better perhaps. At any rate it is done. But what a blessed thing if one can only help a youngster like this to fight his way through the cold clammy atmosphere which is always hanging over him, and ready to settle down on him—can help to keep some living faith in him, that the world, Oxford and all, isn’t a respectable piece of machinery set going some centuries back! Ah! it’s an awful business, that temptation to believe, or think you believe, in a dead God. It has nearly broken my back a score of times. What are all the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the devil to this? It includes them all. Well, I believe I can help him, and, please God, I will, if he will only let me; and the very sight of him does me good; so I won’t believe we went down the lasher together for nothing.”