There was still silence and then, at last, Birkland said slowly:
“Going to chapel to-night, Perrin?”
“Chapel?” sharply. “Yes, of course.”
Again silence. Then Comber said pompously:
“Look here, Perrin. Take advice from me and have a good rest. I should go to bed now if I were you. It 's a good holiday that you 're wanting. Take my advice. Bed's the place—shouldn't go to chapel if I were you—hem.”
“No, shouldn't go to chapel,” repeated Dormer slowly.
Perrin began to breathe qnickly. “What do you mean?” he cried. “Why shouldn't I go to chapel? What do you mean about a holiday?”
“You 're tired,” Birkland said qnickly. “That's what it is. We're all tired—overdone. We've all been feeling it for weeks. It's a good thing term's come to an end. I knew something would happen. You 're tired, Perrin.”
“Tired!” He turned snarling upon them, his eyes flaming. “Tired! It's jealousy, that's what it is! You don't like to see me taking the lead—you hate my coming to the front. You've always hated me, the lot of you. You 're jealous, that's what it is. You 're cruel”—his voice suddenly broke—“I was helping you all. That's why I spoke—and now—”
And then with head hanging, he rushed blindly from the room.