The rain beat upon the frames, Robert clashed the plates together, but there was no answer. Clinton's head was in his pigeonhole, looking for papers.
“Robert, have you seen my umbrella?”
No, Robert had not seen any umbrella. He might have seen an umbrella last week, somewhere upstairs, in Miss Madder's room—an umbrella with lace, pink—Oh! of course, a parasol. There were three umbrellas in the stand by the hall door. Perhaps one of those was the one. No? Mr. Perrin had looked? Well, he didn't know of anywhere else. No—perhaps one of the young gentlemen.... There was nothing at all to be got out of Robert.
“Clinton!” No answer. “Clinton!”
At last Clinton turned round.
“Clinton, have you seen my umbrella?”
“No, old man—why should I? Isn't it outside?”
It was getting late, the rain was pelting down, and Perrin was quite determined that he would not under any circumstances use anyone else's umbrella.
He went out again and looked in the hall. He was beginning to get very angry. Was not this the last straw sent by the little gods to break his humble back? That it should be raining, that he should be late, and that there should be no umbrella! He stormed about the hall, he looked in impossible places, he shook the three umbrellas that were there; he began to mutter to himself—the little red and yellow china man was creeping down the stairs. He was shaking all over, and his hands were trembling like leaves.
He came into the common room again. “I can't think—” he said, with his trembling hand to his forehead. “I know I had it yesterday—last night. Clinton, you must have seen it.”