“I am sorry, extremely sorry, if, after all these years you feel that I have acted unjustly towards you, but I hope that you will not think me unfriendly—my last wish is to appear in any way unfriendly—if I say that this opinion of yours—a little hurriedly assumed, perhaps—owes something to the mental fatigue to which I have already alluded. All I beg of you is to wait before you hand in your resignation, to wait until you are stronger both in mind and body. I think I may say that the governors will only too readily allow you a holiday during next term—when the summertime is with us you will return alert and fresh in body and mind.” Tick—tick—tick went the clock—“Here's a good offer—Here's a good offer.” “I wish to hand in my resignation,” said Mr. Perrin. “Of course if you will, you will. I can only say that we shall all be genuinely sorry. Let me, at any rate, implore you to wait before making your decision. In a few weeks' time perhaps—” “I meant every word that I said this afternoon. This place is scandalous—scandalous—” “I regret that you feel that. I'm extremely sorry that you feel about it as you do. But at least let me beg you to wait for a few weeks. Write to me. Write to the governors—write to anyone you please. But wait—let me urge you to wait.” Mr. Moy-Thompson's hand was laid upon Perrin's knee. Again there was silence. Then at last: “Very well. What does it matter? I will wait. I haven't the strength to break with anything. I'm no use—no good.” He got to his feet and then suddenly broke out: “But I tell you, I'm right. You 're too clever for me, but I'm right. What I've said is true, it's all true. You 're a devil. You've had us all at your mercy for years and years. You've worked us against one another until you've rubbed all our courage and finer pieces off us and you 're pleased—you 're pleased. You've had a fine life of it—you, a God's parson—and you've made money and you've broken hearts and you've eaten and drunk—and you 're too clever for us, but there's hell for you somewhere. I see it and I know it.” He broke away and burst stumbling from the room. It may be that for once the man whom he left heard the sound of some judgment in his ears, for he stood, long after every stir in the world about him had passed away, staring, without movement and afraid. III. But Perrin had no exultation in him; it was not of Moy-Thompson he was thinking. The last stones of his fortress had been removed from his defenses and he stood utterly naked to the world. He did not attempt now to gather his resources about him. He cared no more for any face that he might present to the world. He had reached the heart of his kingdom and he saw that he was no good—no good at all—an utterly useless man. He had not even the pluck to defy Moy-Thompson, to fling his resignation in his face. He was no good.