Let us leave him. He will come back to the club later
on in the season. For a while we may have to give him another ten
points or so, but he will soon get back his old form. Now and
again, when he meets the other fellows' boys shouting on the
towing-path; when Brown rushes up the drive, paper in hand, to tell
him how that young scapegrace Jim has won his Cross; when he is
congratulating Jones's eldest on having passed with honours, the old
wound may give him a nasty twinge. But the pain will pass away. He
will laugh at our stories and tell us his own; eat his dinner, play
his rubber. It is only a wound.
Tommy can never be ours, Jenny does not love us. We cannot afford
claret, so we will have to drink beer. Well, what would you have us
do? Yes, let us curse Fate by all means--some one to curse is
always useful. Let us cry and wring our hands--for how long? The
dinner-bell will ring soon, and the Smiths are coming. We shall
have to talk about the opera and the picture-galleries. Quick,
where is the eau-de-Cologne? where are the curling-tongs? Or would
you we committed suicide? Is it worth while? Only a few more
years--perhaps to-morrow, by aid of a piece of orange peel or a
broken chimney-pot--and Fate will save us all that trouble.
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