“Oh, of course, Comber,” said West. “You grudge a man any bit of luck that he may have. It's just like you. I never knew anything more selfish. If you'd had an hour off yourself, you 'd have let us know about it all right.”
“Well, stop talking about it anyhow, West,” said Dormer. “Leave it alone. Can't you see that we 're all as tired out as we can be? We've had enough fighting this term to last us a century.”
With common consent they seemed to sink their private differences in a common thought of that strange, silent man sitting behind them.
They all drew closer together. The pale gas-light fell on their faces, and they were all white and tired, with heavy, dark marks under their eyes.
With their dark gowns, their long white hands, their pale faces, their heavy eyes, they moved silently about the room and gathered at last in a cluster by the fire, and stood and sat silently without a word. Only Perrin, hidden in the shadow behind them, did not move.
Then suddenly Birkland, who was standing a little away from the rest with his back against the wall, spoke.
“You're right, Dormer. We've fought enough this term to fill a great many years. We 're a wretched enough crew.”
He paused; but no one spoke, and no one moved.
“I wonder sometimes,” he went on, “how long we are going to stand it. Most of us have been here a great many years—most of us have had our hopes broken a great many years ago—most of us have lost our pluck—” Perhaps he expected a vehement denial, because he paused; but no one spoke, and no one moved. “This term has been worse than any other since I have been here. We have all been very near doing things as well as thinking them. I wonder if you others have ever thought, as I have thought sometimes, that we have no right to be here?”
“How do you mean,” said Comber slowly, “no right?”