“Oh, but of course he 's dotty. It's been coming on for years.” And the other voices came together: “Well, they ought to have kept him out of the place. It's a disgrace, a thing like that happening.” “Moy-Thompson's face! I wouldn't have missed it for all the holidays in the world!” “No, but really someone ought to have stopped him. He seemed to have got started before anyone saw him.” “Little Spalding thought bombs were being flung about by the look of him.” But Perrin was too greatly elated to pay very much attention to these speeches. He had heard nothing. He advanced up the long room with a smile and his head held high, his gown swinging behind him. They had heard the door open and now they stood almost in a line, by the fire, watching him come up the room. They were quite silent and made no movement. They watched him. He was stopped in his advance, suddenly, by their faces. They were watching him, he thought, curiously. His confidence began to leave him. “It's nearly chapel time,” he said uneasily. “Hum! ha!” There was no answer. “Well, Birkland, I 've put your words into deeds, haven't I? Yes, indeed, hum, ha. I thought it an admirable opportunity.” He stopped again. Birkland murmured something. West and Comber had turned away and were looking at the papers. Perrin felt that he was growing angry. It was so like them to grudge him any little importance that he might have obtained. They were jealous, of course, and wished that they had had the courage to step forward. They; had missed their opportunity and were indignant with him now because he had seized his—well! “Yes,” he said, the color mounting to his cheeks; “I flatter myself that something will come of it. It will be difficult for them, I think, to disregard that altogether—hum—yes.” There was still silence and then, at last, Birkland said slowly: “Going to chapel to-night, Perrin?” “Chapel?” sharply. “Yes, of course.” Again silence. Then Comber said pompously: “Look here, Perrin. Take advice from me and have a good rest. I should go to bed now if I were you. It 's a good holiday that you 're wanting. Take my advice. Bed's the place—shouldn't go to chapel if I were you—hem.” “No, shouldn't go to chapel,” repeated Dormer slowly. Perrin began to breathe qnickly. “What do you mean?” he cried. “Why shouldn't I go to chapel? What do you mean about a holiday?” “You 're tired,” Birkland said qnickly. “That's what it is. We're all tired—overdone. We've all been feeling it for weeks. It's a good thing term's come to an end. I knew something would happen. You 're tired, Perrin.” “Tired!” He turned snarling upon them, his eyes flaming. “Tired! It's jealousy, that's what it is! You don't like to see me taking the lead—you hate my coming to the front. You've always hated me, the lot of you. You 're jealous, that's what it is. You 're cruel”—his voice suddenly broke—“I was helping you all. That's why I spoke—and now—”