'Do you think--' said the other in a tone of singular vibration,
which had in it a note of almost contemptuous irritation--'do you
think _I_ am the man to get and keep a hold on a rampageous class
of hundreds of Scotch lads? Do you think _I_ am the man to carry
on what Reid began--Reid, that old fighter, that preacher of all
sorts of jubilant dogmas?'

He looked at Elsmere under his straight, black brows, imperiously.
The youth felt the nervous tension in the elder man's voice and
manner, was startled by a confidence never before bestowed upon
him, close as that unequal bond between them had been growing during
the six months of his Oxford life, and plucking up courage hurled
at him a number of frank, young expostulations, which really put
into friendly shape all that was being said about Langham in his
College and in the University. Why was he so self-distrustful, so
absurdly diffident of responsibility, so bent on hiding his great
gifts under a bushel?

The tutor smiled sadly, and, sitting down, buried his head in his
hands and said nothing for a while. Then he looked up and stretched
out a hand toward a book which lay on a table near. It was the
'Reveries' of Senancour. 'My answer is written _here_,' he said.
'It will seem to you now, Elsmere, mere Midsummer madness. May it
always seem so to you. Forgive me. The pressure of solitude
sometimes is too great.'

Elsmere looked up with one of his flashing, affectionate smiles,
and took the book from Langham's hand. He found on the open page
a marked passage: