Perplexities

Coulson and Philip were friendly, but not intimate. They never had
had a dispute, they never were confidential with each other; in
truth, they were both reserved and silent men, and, probably,
respected each other the more for being so self-contained. There was
a private feeling in Coulson's heart which would have made a less
amiable fellow dislike Philip. But of this the latter was
unconscious: they were not apt to exchange many words in the room
which they occupied jointly.

Coulson asked Philip if he had enjoyed himself at the Corneys', and
Philip replied,-'Not much; such parties are noane to my liking.' 'And yet thou broke off from t' watch-night to go there.' No answer; so Coulson went on, with a sense of the duty laid upon
him, to improve the occasion--the first that had presented itself
since the good old Methodist minister had given his congregation the
solemn warning to watch over the opportunities of various kinds
which the coming year would present.

'Jonas Barclay told us as the pleasures o' this world were like
apples o' Sodom, pleasant to look at, but ashes to taste.' Coulson wisely left Philip to make the application for himself. If
he did he made no sign, but threw himself on his bed with a heavy
sigh.

'Are yo' not going to undress?' said Coulson, as he covered him up
in bed.

There had been a long pause of silence. Philip did not answer him,
and he thought he had fallen asleep. But he was roused from his
first slumber by Hepburn's soft movements about the room. Philip had
thought better of it, and, with some penitence in his heart for his
gruffness to the unoffending Coulson, was trying not to make any
noise while he undressed.