“I say, swop one of those brown things for one of mine—Thanks! Where's Garden, you chaps?”
“Swotting up for Old Pompous.”
“Oh! what rot! I'm blowed if I would. I thought Pompous was rather sweet on Garden.”
“So he is—but Garden can't stand him.”
“No wonder—blithering ass, with his long words!”
“Oh! I say—they 've got it! There's Morton off again—Oh! he's going! Well run, my word! He's in! No, he isn't! The back's got him! No, he hasn't! Hurray! Try! Good old Morton!”
Amongst the commotion that followed the happy event Perrin moved to a less crowded portion of the people. He was accustomed to hearing himself spoken of with but little respect by those who, when he was present, trembled before him. He always told himself that all the members of the staff were in the same box; but this afternoon it hurt—it hurt badly.
Little beasts! He'd punish them! As he moved along behind the ranks of boys—each boy with his friend—the familiar mantle of loneliness, that he had known so long, swept him in its somber folds. He saw Comber in the distance, turned to avoid him, and suddenly confronted Mrs. Comber and Miss Desart.
He pulled himself up with a sudden effort of one who, feeling at his very worst, has immediately to appear at his very best, and the struggle was glaring to the observer, in the nervous clutching of the buttons of his coat and his uneasy, agitated laugh.
Mrs. Comber was always at her noisiest and most affable with Mr. Perrin, because she didn't like him, and she always tried to cover that dislike with an increased amiability. Isabel stood rather gravely by and watched the game.