His head dropped—his voice ceased. Then he repeated, drearily, “I want to hand in my resignation.”
The clock ticked on solemnly. At last Moy-Thompson spoke, very gently and a little sadly:
“I am sorry, extremely sorry, if, after all these years you feel that I have acted unjustly towards you, but I hope that you will not think me unfriendly—my last wish is to appear in any way unfriendly—if I say that this opinion of yours—a little hurriedly assumed, perhaps—owes something to the mental fatigue to which I have already alluded. All I beg of you is to wait before you hand in your resignation, to wait until you are stronger both in mind and body. I think I may say that the governors will only too readily allow you a holiday during next term—when the summertime is with us you will return alert and fresh in body and mind.”
Tick—tick—tick went the clock—“Here's a good offer—Here's a good offer.”
“I wish to hand in my resignation,” said Mr. Perrin.
“Of course if you will, you will. I can only say that we shall all be genuinely sorry. Let me, at any rate, implore you to wait before making your decision. In a few weeks' time perhaps—”
“I meant every word that I said this afternoon. This place is scandalous—scandalous—”
“I regret that you feel that. I'm extremely sorry that you feel about it as you do. But at least let me beg you to wait for a few weeks. Write to me. Write to the governors—write to anyone you please. But wait—let me urge you to wait.”
Mr. Moy-Thompson's hand was laid upon Perrin's knee. Again there was silence. Then at last:
“Very well. What does it matter? I will wait. I haven't the strength to break with anything. I'm no use—no good.” He got to his feet and then suddenly broke out: