At last, Moy-Thompson swung round, away from the table and faced Perrin. His heard seemed to bristle with friendliness. He was very large, his clothes were very black, his fingers were very long.
“Now, Mr. Perrin, I'm not going to keep you long—really, only a few moments, hum, yes. I'm sure you 're tired after a long day. But come, Mr. Perrin (this, leaning forward genially), we've got to discuss this matter, you know. Let us be friendly about it. I can assure you that I have nothing but the most friendly feelings towards you in this matter.”
Perrin flushed and half rose from his chair. “No, please, Mr. Perrin, I beg of you—please be seated—hum—I really am most anxious to prove to you that I am nothing but friendly in this matter.” Moy-Thompson paused and tapped his nails, with sharp little rattling noises, one against the other. “Now, Mr. Perrin, I'm sure you must agree with me that a disturbance like that of this afternoon is exceedingly unusual and I may say with very considerable truth that no one who was present was more completely and remarkably surprised than myself. I do not pretend,” he went on with a smile and lifting a deprecating hand towards the fire, “that I am so pleasantly self-assured as to believe that there is no unsound plank in this good ship of ours; there are many things, I am sure, that would be the better for a newer and a younger hand, but I had supposed—and naturally supposed, I think—that any complaints that there were would be brought to the committee or myself privately. From time to time complaints have been brought to me and I may say that I have always dealt with them to the best of my ability, but—” here Moy-Thompson paused, looked at Perrin, and then smiled very gently—“do you know that you are the very last man whom I should have expected to have come to me with any complaint of any kind?”
Perrin had made no reply, had attempted to make no reply to this long speech. He sat in his chair without any other movement than the regular and rapid turning of the mortarboard between his hands. His head was bent towards the floor. At this last word he looked up as though he would reply and half started from his chair.
Moy-Thompson held forward his large white hand.
“No—please, a moment—may I not explain myself? although it needs surely no explanations. I mean the admirable relationship that has always, I believe, existed between us. I must confess that if I had yesterday been questioned as to which of my staff I could most securely trust and honor I should have named yourself.” He paused and then slowly added, “I need scarcely remind you that it is only a fortnight since there passed between us, in this very room, an interview of the most friendly and confidential description.”
There was no word from the chair.
“You must remember that, during the many years that have passed since you have been with me here you have made no kind of complaint. You have had many, very many opportunities, for voicing things freely to me. I have always been frank with you—you 've seized none of them. All the more amazing, the more compelling my surprise then, at what occurred to-day.”
At last there was a pause that demanded a reply. The room was filled with silence and neither man moved. Perrin was striving to clear his brain. What was he to say? What had he come to say? Where were all the things that he had thought out so carefully in his study? Moreover, it was true; it was all amazingly true. They had been friends, he and Moy-Thompson, all these years, great friends. Other members of the staff may have rebelled and quarreled and disputed, but he had always supported authority. He remembered now with a kind of dazed surprise the pleasure that he had taken in those little quarter-of-an-hour interviews in that very room. This momentous and horrible fact rose now before him and froze any reply that he might make. He had been Moy-Thompson's devoted henchman for twenty years—was he the right man to head a rebellion now?
In spite of the long silence he made no reply.