What wonder, I say, if he moped and felt discontented?
What wonder if his thoughts wandered to scenes and places that contrasted forcibly with his dead-alive occupation?
What wonder if he hankered after a "little excitement," to break the monotony of lectures, hard reading, and stupid evenings?
"Ah," I hear you say, "there are plenty of things he might have done.
It was his own fault if he was dull in London.

I would have gone to the museums, the libraries, the concerts, the parks, the river, the picture galleries, and other harmless and delightful places of amusement.

Why, I could not be dull in London if I tried.

Tom Drift was an idiot." My dear friend, what a pity Tom Drift had not the advantage of your acquaintance when he was in London! But he had not.

He had no friends, as I have said, except the Newcomes, whom he only visited occasionally, and as a matter chiefly of duty, and his anxiety to keep right at first had led him to reject and fight shy of friendships with his fellow- students.