The afternoon drew to evening. Many voices had sounded below his window, but the summer evening was now drawing, softly and quietly, about the world. Voices came like notes of music at long intervals across the darkening lawns. It was nearly seven o'clock and presently it would be time for chapel. The staff always gathered in the Senior common room before chapel and they would all be there now. As he paced his room Mr. Perrin saw them gathered there, talking.
He felt an eager impatience to know what they were saying. Of course they would be talking about him, discussing it all. His impatience grew. He felt that he could not go into chapel until he had heard what they had to say. He saw them turn as he entered the room, their sudden silence, and then their eager coming forward. They would tell him their plans; perhaps they had already prepared a written protest supporting his own outburst.
He must go. He hurriedly put on his gown and hastened with shining eyes and a beating heart to the Upper School.
He heard, before he opened the door, the buzz of voices, and he entered the room proudly. They were all gathered about the fire—all of them, he thought, except Traill. Birkland was in the middle of them and they seemed to be all talking at once, West's voice above the others.
“Oh, but of course he 's dotty. It's been coming on for years.”
And the other voices came together:
“Well, they ought to have kept him out of the place. It's a disgrace, a thing like that happening.”
“Moy-Thompson's face! I wouldn't have missed it for all the holidays in the world!”
“No, but really someone ought to have stopped him. He seemed to have got started before anyone saw him.”
“Little Spalding thought bombs were being flung about by the look of him.”