He had treated Traill like the rest, but then Traill never noticed it. He was not afraid of Birkland, he never resented his criticism, and he appreciated his humor. And then suddenly one evening Birkland asked him to come and see him. His room was untidy—littered with school-books, exercise-books, stacks of paper to be corrected; but behind this curtain of discomfort there were signs of other earlier things: some etchings, dusty and uncared for, sets of Meredith and Pater, some photographs, and a large engraving of Whistler's portrait of his mother. The latticed window was open, and from the night outside, blowing into the gusty candles, there were the scent of decaying leaves and a faint breath of the distant sea. Birkland was thin—sticks of legs and arms; a short, wiry mustache; heavy, overhanging eyebrows; thin, straight, stiff hair turning a little gray. He gave Traill a drink, watched him fill a pipe; and then, huddled in his armchair, his legs crossed under him, his eyes full on the open window and the night sky, he asked Traill questions. “And so you like it?” “Yes—immensely!” “Why?” “Well—why not? After all, it gives a fellow what he wants. There's plenty of exercise—the hours are healthy—the fellows are quite nice fellows. I like teaching.” Traill gave a sigh of satisfaction, and, after all, he had omitted his principal reason. “Yes. How long do you mean to stay here?” “Oh! a year, I suppose. Then I ought to get to Clifton.” “Yes. You'd better not tell the Head that, though. How do you like the other men?” “Oh, I think they 're very good fellows. Dormer's splendid.” “Yes—and Perrin?” “Oh! he's all right. He seems to get annoyed pretty easily. As a matter of fact, I have felt rather irritated once or twice.” “Yes—everyone's wanted to cut Perrin's throat some time or other. As a matter of fact, I shouldn't wonder if it was n't the other way round—one day.” There was a pause, and then Birkland said, “And so you like it.” “Yes, of course; don't you?” Birkland laughed. There was a long pause. Then Traill said again, rather uncertainly, “Don't you?” He had never thought of Birkland as an unhappy man—as a matter of fact he never thought of people as being definite kinds of people, and he scarcely ever read novels. Then Birkland spoke: “You had better not ask me that, young man, if you want an encouraging answer.” Then very slowly, after another pause, the words came out: “I'm going to speak the truth to you to-night for the good and safety of your soul, and I haven't cared for the good and safety of anyone's soul for—well!—I should be afraid to say how long. I'm afraid—I don't really care very much about the safety of yours—but I care enough to speak to you; and the one thing I say to you is—get out—get away. Fly for your life.” His voice sank to a whisper. “If you don't, you will die very soon—in a year perhaps. We are all dead here, and we died a great many years ago.”