“Oh, really!”—the little man on the mantelpiece was smiling again. Perrin was snarling, and his hands gripped the sides of his chair. “Your apologies seem a little premature. One can forgive something to your age, but that sort of impertinence—I don't think you remember to whom you are speaking. You are the junior master here, you must be taught that, and when those who are wiser than yourself choose to give you some advice, you should take it gratefully.”
Traill took a step down the room, his hands clenched.
“My God! you conceited, insufferable—”
“Get out of my room!”
“All right, when I 've told you what I 've thought of you.”
“Get out of my room!” Perrin's eyes were starting out of his head.
Traill swung on his heel. “I won't forget this in a hurry,” he said.
“Take care you don't come in here again,” Perrin shouted after him. The door was banged.
Perrin sat back in his chair; the room was going round and round, and he had a confused idea that people were running races. He pressed his hands to his head; the little china man leapt, screaming, off the mantelpiece and ran at him, kicking up his fat little legs; and with the breeze from under the door, a pile of French exercises fluttered, blew like sails in the wind, and then slid, scattering, to the floor.