“No,” said Clinton in that abstract voice that is so profoundly irritating because it shows that the speaker's thoughts are far away. “No—I don't think I've seen it. What did I do with that Algebra? Oh! there it is. My word! is n't it raining!”
The Upper School bell began, far in the distance, its raucous clanging. Perrin was pacing up and down the room; every now and again he flung a furtive glance at Traill. Traill had paid, hitherto, no attention to the conversation. At last, hearing the Upper School bell, he looked up.
“What's the matter?” he said.
“Really, Robert,” said Perrin, turning round to the factotum, “you must have seen it somewhere. It's absurd! I want to go out.”
“There are the other gentlemen's,” said Robert, looking a little frightened of Perrin's twitching lips and white face.
It dawned upon Traill slowly that Perrin was looking for an umbrella. Then on that it followed that possibly the umbrella that he had taken that morning might be Perrin's umbrella.
Of course it must be Perrin's umbrella. It was just the sort of umbrella, with its faded silk and stupid handle, that Perrin would be likely to have. However, it was really very awkward—most awkward.
He stood up and stayed with a hand nervously fingering the Morning Post.
Perrin rushed once more into the hall and then came furiously back. “I must have my umbrella,” he said, storming at Robert. “I want to go to the Upper School.”
He had left the door a little open.