“Indeed! But why?”
“I have not done any, sir.”
“Really. I am sorry for that. It is a serious matter, for you have been doing remarkably well, and— Are you not feeling well?”
“No, sir, not exactly.”
“Hum! Well, it is a great pity; a great pity; a very great pity. However—”
There seemed to be no more to say, and as Julian’s mind was in too turbulent a state to allow of his being communicative, he did not trust himself to make any remark, and left the room.
Kennedy, who came up with him as he went out, asked what was the matter; but as he only answered with an impatient gesture, and evidently seemed to wish to be alone, Kennedy left him and went to inquire of Lillyston what had happened, while Julian hastened to the solitude of his own room, and breaking with his poker one of the outer hinges of his door, to secure himself from a second imprisonment, flung himself on a chair, and pressed his hands to his burning forehead. In his bitterness of soul he half determined to abandon all further attempt to gain the Clerkland, and dwelt, with galling recurrence, on the anguish of defeated aims. But the sound of the clock striking the hour of examination started him into sudden effort, and almost mechanically he seized his cap and gown, and went out without food and unrefreshed.
Although he endeavoured, with all his might, to shake off all thought of the morning’s insult and misfortune, he only partially succeeded, and when he folded up his papers, he felt that the fire and energy which had shone so conspicuously during the earlier days of the examination, and had imparted such strength and brilliancy to his efforts, were utterly extinguished, and had left him wandering and weak. When the time was over, he went to De Vayne’s rooms, and said abruptly—
“De Vayne, will you lend me your riding-whip?”
“Certainly,” said De Vayne, starting up to meet him.