He forgot to eat, and roamed through the streets of Thrigsby, finding relief from the strain of his fear and his tormented thoughts in observation. Dimly, hardly at all consciously, he began to perceive countless existences all apparently indifferent to his own. Little boys jeered at him occasionally, but the men and women took no notice of him. Streets of warehouses he passed through, streets of little blackened houses, under railway arches, under tall chimneys, past shops and theaters and music-halls, and waste grounds, and grounds covered with scaffolding and fenced in with pictured hoardings: an immense energy, the center of which was, surprisingly, not the school. He walked and thought and observed until he sank into exhaustion and confusion. In the evening, when the lamps were lit, the main streets were thronged with men and women idly strolling, for it was too hot for purpose or deliberate amusement.
Late, about eleven o’clock, he walked into his club. The porter saluted. In the smoke room two or three of his acquaintances nodded. No one spoke to him. In a corner was a little group who kept looking in his direction, so that after a time he began to feel that they were talking about him. He became acutely conscious of his position. There were muttering and whispering in the corner, and then one man, a tall, pale-faced man, whom he had known slightly for many years, arose from the group and came heavily toward him.
“I want to speak to you a moment,” said the man.
“Certainly. Certainly.”
They went outside.
“Er—of course,” said the man, “we are awfully sorry, but we can’t help feeling that it was a mistake for you to come here to-night. You must give us time, you know.”
Beenham looked the man up and down.
“Time for what?” he replied acidly.
“To put it bluntly,” came the answer, “Harbutt says he won’t stay in the club if you stay.”
Beenham turned on his heel and went downstairs. At the door he met the Head Master coming in, who sourly expressed pleasure in the meeting.