he had to ease himself by talking of indifferent matters and laughing at nothing. Tom had never seen him in this sort of humor before, and couldn't help enjoying it, though he felt that it was partly at his own expense. But when Hardy once just approached the subject of the wine party, Tom bristled up so quickly, and Grey looked so meekly wretched, though he knew nothing of what was coming, that Hardy suddenly changed the subject, and turning to Grey, said —
"What have you been doing the last fortnight? You haven't been here once. I've been obliged to get on with my Aristotle without you."
"I'm very sorry indeed, but I haven't been able to come," said Grey, looking sideways at Hardy, and then at Tom, who sat regarding the wall, supremely indifferent.
"Well, I've finished my Ethics," said Hardy; "can't you come in to-morrow night to talk them over? I suppose you're through them too?"
"No, really," said Grey. "I haven't been able to look at them since the last time I was here."
"You must take care," said Hardy. "The new examiners are all for science and history; it won't do for you to go in trusting to your scholarship."
"I hope to make it up in the Easter vacation," said Grey. "You'll have enough to do then," said Hardy; "but how is it you've dropped astern so?"
"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.
"What can there be in your look, Brown?" said Hardy, when he could speak again, "to frighten Grey so? Did you see what a fright he was in at once, at the idea of turning you into the night schools? There must be some lurking Protestantism in your face somewhere, which I hadn't detected."
"I don't believe he was frightened at me a bit. He wouldn't have you either, remember," said Tom.
"Well, at any rate, that doesn't look as if it were all mere Gothic-mouldings and man-millinery, does it?" said Hardy.
Tom sipped his tea, and considered.
"One can't help admiring him, do you know, for it," he said. "Do you think he is really thrown back, now, in his own reading by this teaching?"
"I'm sure of it. He is such a quiet fellow, that nothing else is likely to draw him off reading; I can see that he doesn't get on as he used, day by day. Unless he makes it up somehow, he won't get his first."
"He don't seem to like the teaching work much," said Tom.
"Not at all, so far as I can see."
"Then it is a very fine thing of him," said Tom.
"And you retract your man-millinery dictum, so far as he is concerned?"
"Yes, that I do, heartily; but not as to the set in general."
"Well, they don't suit me either; but, on the whole, they are wanted – at any rate, in this college. Even the worst of them is making some sort of protest for self-denial, and against self-indulgence, which is nowhere more needed than here."
"A nice sort of protest – muslin curtains, a piano, and old claret."
"Oh, you've no right to count Henden among them; he has only a little hankering after mediaevalism, and thinks the whole thing gentlemanly."
"I only know the whole clamjamfery of them were there, and didn't seem to protest much."
"Brown, you're a bigot. I should never have thought you would have been so furious against any set of fellows, I begin to smell Arnold."
"No you don't. He never spoke to me against anybody."
"Hallo! It was the Rugby atmosphere, then, I suppose. But I tell you they are the only men in the college who are making that protest, whatever their motives may be."
"What do you say to yourself, old fellow?"
"Nonsense! I never deny myself any pleasure that I can afford, if it isn't wrong in itself, and doesn't hinder anyone else. I can tell you I am as fond of fine things and good living as you."
"If a thing isn't wrong, and you can afford it, and it doesn't hurt anybody! Just so; well, then, mustn't it be right for you to have? You wouldn't have it put under your nose, I suppose, just for you to smell at, and let it alone?"
"Yes, I know all that. I've been over it often enough, and there's truth in it. But, mind you, it's rather slippery ground, especially for a freshman; and there's a good deal to be said on the other side – I mean, for denying oneself just for the sake of the self denial."
"Well, they don't deny themselves the pleasure of looking at a fellow as if he were a Turk, because he likes St. Paul's better than Westminster Abbey."
"How that snubbing you got at the Ecclesiological wine party seems to wrankle. – There now! don't bristle up like a hedgehog. I'll never mention that unfortunate wine again. I saw the eight come in to-day. You were keeping much better time, but there is a weak place or two forward."
"Yes," said Tom, delighted to change the subject, "I find it awfully hard to pull up to Jervis's stroke. Do you think I shall ever get to it?"
"Of course you will. Why you have only been pulling behind him a dozen times or so, and his is the most trying stroke on the river. You quicken a little on it; but I didn't mean you. Two and five are the blots in the boat."
"You think so?" said Tom, much relieved. "So does Miller, I can see. It's so provoking – Drysdale is to pull two in the races next term, and Blake seven, and then Diogenes will go to five. He's obliged to pull seven now, because Blake won't come down this term; no more will Drysdale. They
