That was what people said,
Jock was aware, in novels and other productions; but until to-night he
never believed it was true.

And then there was the journey from town, with all the curious sensation
of parting at the theatre doors, and returning from that shining world
of gaslight, and ladies' dresses, into the dimness of the railway, the
tedious though not very long journey, the plunging of the carriage
through the blackness of the night; and along with these the questions
of Mr. Derwentwater, so unlike him, so uncalled-for, as Jock could not
help thinking. What had he to do with Bice? What had any one to do with
her? So far as she belonged to any one, it was to himself, Jock; her
first friend, her companion in her walks, he to whom she had spoken so
freely, and who had told her his opinion with such simplicity. When Jock
remembered that he had told her she was not pretty his cheeks burned.
There had stolen into his mind, he could not tell how, a very different
feeling now--not perhaps a different opinion. When he reflected it did
not seem to him even now that pretty was the word to use--but the
impression of Bice which was in his mind was something that made the boy
thrill. He did not understand it, nor could he tell what it was. But it
made him quiver with resentment when there was any question about
her--anything like this cold-blooded investigation which Mr.
Derwentwater had attempted to make. It troubled Jock all the more that
it should be MTutor who made it. When our god, our model of excellence,
comes down from his high state to anything that is petty, or less than
perfect, how sore is the pang with which we acknowledge it. "To be wroth
with those we love doth work like madness in the brain." Jock had both
these pangs together. He was angry because MTutor had been interfering
with matters in which he had no concern, and he was pained because
MTutor had condescended to ask questions and invite gossip, like the
smaller beings well enough known in the boy-world as in every other,
who make gossip the chief object of their existence. Could there be
anything in the idol of his youth akin to these? He felt sore and
disappointed, without knowing why, with a dim consciousness that there
were many other people whom Mr. Derwentwater might have inquired about
without awakening any such feelings in him. When the train stopped, and
they got out, it was strange to walk down the silent, midnight streets
by MTutor's side, with