And then something suddenly seemed to go in his brain, and he stopped still. What was he doing? He bent feebly to pick them up, but he could not collect them. He sat down at his table with his head in his hands. Then he gave up trying to correct them. After all, they were not the important thing—the important thing was between himself and Traill; that was what he must think about. This was Monday, and on Friday everyone would go away. He would go away, he supposed, with the rest: of course he would go to his mother. Traill would go away with Miss Desart... would he? The other Mr. Perrin leant over and whispered in his ear. It was from this moment that Mr. Perrin came to the definite decision that something must be done before Friday. He made five black marks with a pencil on the yellow wallpaper in his bedroom, and he would lie hack on his bed at night, staring up at the marks whilst his candle guttered on the chair at his side. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday... Monday passed, and he scratched another mark across the mark that he had already made. Tuesday passed, and that he also scratched out. Wednesday morning came. Divinity was the only examination left except Repetition on Thursday morning: Wednesday afternoon was a half-holiday. He gave out the Old Testament questions: “1. Say what you know about the rebellion of Korah, Dathan, and Abiram; its cause and effects. “2. Write briefly a life of Aaron...” He found that now suddenly his brain was perfectly clear. To-day was Wednesday—before Friday he would kill Traill. The determination came to him perfectly plainly in the midst of these questions: “6. Give context of: 'Kill me, I pray thee, out of hand, if I have found favor in thy sight.' “'Let us make a captain and let us return into Egypt.' “'Is the Lord's hand waxed short?'.rdquo; He would kill Traill. He did not mind at all what happened to him afterwards. What did it matter? Perhaps he would kill himself. He was a complete failure; he had never been any use at all, and had only been there for people to laugh at and mock him. If it had not been for Traill he might have been of use—he might have married Miss Desart. Traill had been against him in every way, and now the only thing that was left for him to do was to kill Traill. He hated Traill—of course he hated Traill; but it was not really because of that that he was going to kill Traill—it was only because he wanted to show all these people that he could do something: he was not useless, after all. They might laugh at him and call him Pompous, but, after all, the laugh would be on his side at the end.... Traill would not be able to kiss Miss Desart very much longer—another day, and he would never be able to kiss her again.... That was a pleasant thought. Now that he had decided this question he felt a great deal happier and easier in his mind. There was no longer any self-pity.