Clinton was always perfectly good-tempered, and all he said now was, “All right, old chap—I always have an awful appetite in the morning. I always had.” Perrin drew himself to his full height and prepared to be dignified. Clinton said, “I say, old man, you 've got chalk all over your sleeve.” And Perrin, finding that it was indeed true, could say nothing and feebly tried to brush it off with his hand. Traill had not spoken since Perrin had come in. He disliked intensely the atmosphere of restraint in the room. He had never before been on such bad terms with anyone, and now at every turn there were discomforts, difficulties, stiffnesses. At this moment he loathed the term and the place and the people as he had never loathed any of them before; he felt that he could not possibly last until the holidays. Perrin was going to the Upper School for first hour. He was going to teach Divinity, the lesson that he loathed most of all. He gathered his. books up and his gown, and went out into the hall to find his umbrella. The rain was falling more heavily than before, and lashed the panes as though it had some personal grievance against them. Robert, the general factotum—a long, pale man with a spotty face and a wonderful capacity for dropping china—came in to collect the breakfast things. He passed, clattering about the table. Traill was still deep in the Morning Post. Perrin came in with a clouded brow. “I can't find,” he said, “my umbrella.” The rain beat upon the frames, Robert clashed the plates together, but there was no answer. Clinton's head was in his pigeonhole, looking for papers. “Robert, have you seen my umbrella?” No, Robert had not seen any umbrella. He might have seen an umbrella last week, somewhere upstairs, in Miss Madder's room—an umbrella with lace, pink—Oh! of course, a parasol. There were three umbrellas in the stand by the hall door. Perhaps one of those was the one. No? Mr. Perrin had looked? Well, he didn't know of anywhere else. No—perhaps one of the young gentlemen.... There was nothing at all to be got out of Robert. “Clinton!” No answer. “Clinton!” At last Clinton turned round. “Clinton, have you seen my umbrella?” “No, old man—why should I? Isn't it outside?” It was getting late, the rain was pelting down, and Perrin was quite determined that he would not under any circumstances use anyone else's umbrella. He went out again and looked in the hall. He was beginning to get very angry. Was not this the last straw sent by the little gods to break his humble back? That it should be raining, that he should be late, and that there should be no umbrella! He stormed about the hall, he looked in impossible places, he shook the three umbrellas that were there; he began to mutter to himself—the little red and yellow china man was creeping down the stairs. He was shaking all over, and his hands were trembling like leaves.