Thomas Outram was Leonard's elder by two years and cast in a more
fragile mould. His face was the face of a dreamer, the brown eyes were
large and reflective, and the mouth sensitive as a child's. He was a
scholar and a philosopher, a man of much desultory reading, with refined
tastes and a really intimate knowledge of Greek gems.
"Is that you, Leonard?" he said, looking up absently; "where have you
been?"
"To the Rectory," answered his brother.
"What have you been doing there?"
"Do you want to know?"
"Yes, of course. Did you see Jane?"
Then Leonard told him all the story.
"What do you think she will do?" asked Tom when his brother had
finished. "Given the situation and the woman, it is rather a curious
problem."
"It may be," answered Leonard; "but as I am not an equation in algebra
yearning to be worked out, I don't quite see the fun of it. But if you
ask me what I think she will do, I should say that she will follow the
example of everybody else and desert me."
"You seem to have a poor idea of women, old fellow. I know little of
them myself and don't want to know more. But I have always understood
that it is the peculiar glory of their sex to come out strong on these
exceptional occasions. 'Woman in our hours of ease,' etc."
"Well, we shall see. But it is my opinion that women think a great deal
more of their own hours of ease than of those of anybody else. Thank
heaven, here comes our dinner!"
Thus spoke Leonard, somewhat cynically and perhaps not in the best of
taste.
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