“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.