He smiled, of course, and leant across to pat Pridgin on the back.

But that was just his way--we knew well enough that it cloaked a bitter mortification, and why worry the poor beggar with letting him see we noticed it?
So we waited till we got outside, and then let ourselves loose on Tempest and Pridgin, and positively injured our voices with cheering.
That afternoon in the faggery our jubilant review of the situation was combined with a wind-up meeting of the Conversation Club for the term.
"Jolly good show for us," said Langrish.

"Crofter's pretty sick, but it'll do him good.

I move and third, and Sarah seconds and fourths, that we send him a resolution of condolence." "Better let him alone," suggested I.
"Shut up, or you'll get jolly well kicked out of the club," said the secretary.

"If you don't want to be civil, it's no reason why we shouldn't." I had imagined I was on the whole more concerned for Crofter's feelings than they, but, putting it in the way they did, I could hardly resist.