The rooms were sparely furnished, but with good store of books.
Everything expressed the abode of a poor student. That Mr.
Crisparkle had been either chooser, lender, or donor of the books,
or that he combined the three characters, might have been easily
seen in the friendly beam of his eyes upon them as he entered.
'How goes it, Neville?'
'I am in good heart, Mr. Crisparkle, and working away.'
'I wish your eyes were not quite so large and not quite so bright,'
said the Minor Canon, slowly releasing the hand he had taken in
his.
'They brighten at the sight of you,' returned Neville. 'If you
were to fall away from me, they would soon be dull enough.'
'Rally, rally!' urged the other, in a stimulating tone. 'Fight for
it, Neville!'
'If I were dying, I feel as if a word from you would rally me; if
my pulse had stopped, I feel as if your touch would make it beat
again,' said Neville. 'But I HAVE rallied, and am doing famously.'
Mr. Crisparkle turned him with his face a little more towards the
light.
'I want to see a ruddier touch here, Neville,' he said, indicating
his own healthy cheek by way of pattern. 'I want more sun to shine
upon you.'
Neville drooped suddenly, as he replied in a lowered voice: 'I am
not hardy enough for that, yet. I may become so, but I cannot bear
it yet. If you had gone through those Cloisterham streets as I
did; if you had seen, as I did, those averted eyes, and the better
sort of people silently giving me too much room to pass, that I
might not touch them or come near them, you wouldn't think it quite
unreasonable that I cannot go about in the daylight.
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